Intelligence
by LexLuthor13
Summary: Updated! Superman ponders Luthor's involvement...Batman's in the hands of Luthor and Brainiac...Dr. Psycho's at it again, this time with Zatanna...and Brainiac's got another valuable prisoner aboard the Skull Ship. Complete!
1. The Search

_Author's Note:_ Another installment in my own little _Infinite Crisis,_ with parts stemming from events in my two fics: _Dreamers and Demons _and_ Restitution_ (which dealt with the Superboy/Lex Luthor dichotomy in some fashion). Not that those stories are required reading for this story, but if you're a completist, you may be interested in some of the events that happened therein: Black Adam and Deathstroke killed Maxwell Lord, who was in cahoots with Luthor. Luthor himself continued his control of Superboy and made the Teen of Steel destroy (in this order:) Titans Tower in 'Frisco,Checkmate's Brother Eye satellite and lead an unsuccessful raid on the JLA Watchtower.

Okay, enough of that. Some of what you'll see below is information taken from various books in the DCU going on now (mostly _Villains United_, _The OMAC Project_, a little bit of _Teen Titans_ thrown in, and some _JLA_...for good measure), and some of it is proprietary; of my design, such as the Talia monologue below. In any case, enjoy and hopefully when this one's done, you'll think I'm not **as** crazy:).

* * *

_The House of Secrets. Headquarters of the Secret Six._

_Deadshot and Catman._

_Pawns._

"Denver omelet okay with you?"

"Sure. And no amount of peppers is too much if they got 'em."

Thomas Blake, the man who calls himself Catman, turns from the refrigerator, toward the island in the middle of the kitchen, wearing a thinly veiled smile.

Floyd Lawton eases a hip onto one of the bar stools in front of the island, and pulls a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo from his pants pocket. Blake sets the egg carton down, pulls out two eggs and cracks them over an already steaming pan on the stove.

Lawton screws a Marlboro between his lips, lights it, and pulls the smoke into the back of his mouth. Slowly. Let it sit there for a second or two, let it insinuate. Let it calm you down. Blake flips one browned egg over on itself and cocks his head back towards Lawton.

"You really do have a death wish, don't you?" Blake asks, vaguely amused.

"Funny thing, that," Lawton replies. He expels the smoke from his mouth and watches it curl and dissipate in the air. "Most people who've told me that are dead."

"Life's been good to you, hasn't it?" Blake turns the other egg on itself.

"How so?" Lawton asks calmly.

"You must have quite a reputation."

Lawton looks away, raises the fading cigarette to his lips and inhales. "Something like that. I'm sure you could say the same thing?"

"Life's not fair, Floyd. Knew that already." Blake turns around holding a plate in his hand. "There," he says, pushing the plate to Lawton. "Your pepper-jack omelet."

Lawton hesitates, gives the omelet a scrutinizing look. "Thanks," he says, after a pause.

Blake waves a dismissive hand, takes a seat of his own at the island and cuts into his own omelet.

"So."

"You'll excuse me, padre," Lawton says. "I'm not big on the small-talk."

"Likewise," Blake says through a mouthful of egg. Lawton's eyes narrow and his lips thin into a disgusted sneer.

"Jesus, Blake, look at you. You look like you haven't eaten in weeks."

"So?"

"You spend all that time in Africa, living off the grid and look what its done to you. Completely messed up your eating cycles."

"I'll say again, Floyd." Blake's voice carries a hit of…annoyance. And something more. Scorn? Or anger. "It happens. I've gotten used to it."

"You wanna **roll** through life, that's your bit," Lawton challenges, stubbing out his cigarette in his omelet. "Guys like you got nothin' to live for. What the hell are you doin' here?"

"Reclaiming a life," Blake says plainly.

"Oh yeah?"

"Four days after I sent Psycho and Talia on their way, they sent **Deathstroke** to my camp. He killed my lions."

"And that's a problem?"

"I have no **pride** left," Blake says pointedly. "Wilson took it all away."

"And now you want it back?" Lawton asks, lighting another cigarette.

"Yes."

"You're willing to stand up to Deathstroke? A symbolic victory, is that it?" Lawton inhales…and pushes the smoke out.

"He stole my life. You wouldn't know," Blake says distantly.

"Yeah," Lawton snorts. "Right."

"Gentlemen."

The voice comes from somewhere behind Lawton. The source is female. The female. The middle-management one with the nice caboose. Scandal, or…something to that effect. No one knows who she is, or where she came from. Lawton certainly didn't know, and quite frankly he'd never felt the need to ask. She recruited him after all, and he certainly wasn't in a mood to question the Boss.

Assuming she **is** the Boss, of course.

"Evening peaches," Lawton says lightly, stubbing out the cigarette. "Denver omelet?"

"Get dressed. We have a mission."

"Where to?" Blake asks, finishing his omelet.

"Gotham City," Scandal replies curtly. She doesn't seem in a mood for twenty questions. "The Hill."

* * *

_Calais, France._

_Talia Head and Black Adam._

_Partners._

The cold night air wisps along the shoreline on the French side of the English Channel. Years ago, this strategic body of water was the sight of Britain's greatest naval victory, and France's worst defeat. The Battle of Trafalgar, arguably the most significant European naval battle, the greatest engagement of the Napoleonic Age, and the pivotal battle in 19th century Europe was fought on Spain's southwestern edge.

Nelson's plan was to run his ships easterly into the French fleet; break the enemy line with two or three columns in order to cut the center and rear of the fleet from its van, and to then concentrate his forces on the ships in the rear part of the line.

Divide and conquer.

To successfully rout the enemy, one must take them by surprise. Do something that will utterly confound them, set them back in their paces. Only then can victory be assured.

It was a story her father had long ago told her. The Viscount Nelson's brilliant military strategies at work against the inferior French military. How the French were never strong enough—never possessive of the strength of character—to repel an enemy. Britain's obvious strength notwithstanding, the thought of the French not giving the fight their all…was vulgar in the mind of Ra's al Ghul. If you couldn't do your job to the utmost, there was no purpose in doing it at all.

It was advice Talia Head had remembered. And used, to her credit.

"Are you certain you wish to do this?" The voice asked. It belonged to a man called Black Adam. The ruler of Khandaq, a small yet infinitely strategic Middle Eastern country.

"It doesn't matter what **I** think, Adam. Luthor gave the order, and I'm in a position to obey."

"Is that so?"

Talia turned to her right side, where Black Adam hovered mere feet above the ground. His arms were folded over the lightning symbol on his chest; the dark hues of his uniform camouflaged in the darkness surrounding them.

"I wonder," Adam said quietly.

"You have something to say?" Talia's voice was heavy. Her father's advice crept into her head. _Do this right, or don't do it at all. Your only goal is saving the world from itself. Nothing else matters._

"Are you always in a position to obey, Talia?"

Talia's head crooked toward Adam half a degree and one of her eyebrows arched slightly. "When it suits me."

Adam turned away from Talia. His eyes rolled across the horizon, towards the water. Half a mile out in the Channel, a Chinook helicopter hovered over the water, the wind from its blades kicking up clouds of water. On the Chinook's underside, a searchlight flashed to life, and cast itself down on the waves. A single black cable hung from the belly of the chopper; a frogman's head bobbed in the water, his yellow oxygen tanks floating on the surface.

"And they know what they're looking for?" Adam asked. He sounded genuinely concerned.

"They are KOBRA troops, Adam. They have been trained for this."

"My concern is not for their training. It is for their competence."

"One and the same, my friend."

The Daughter of the Demon turned away from the water, waving an expressive hand.

"In any event, the body should not be difficult to locate. It simply a matter of…perspective."

Perspective.

Her father had quite a unique perspective.

Destroy the world, only to create it in **his** image. Free of the slovenly ways and means of mankind. But, as with most things, there were objectors. Men who stood in the way of progress. The way of Ra's al Ghul.

Ra's exterminated some. But more came. One, particularly, objected to her father's plans on a personal basis: his young ward had been kidnapped as part of a test of the man's mettle.

Batman. Bruce Wayne. The former suited him more appropriately.

He was a very great man, this Batman. Perhaps the best.

Of any human on the planet, surely he was the greatest of his kind. But he was not a kind man. Compassion was an emotion lost on the Batman…and on Ra's al Ghul. They were so similar, and so different.

Talia gave a last look at the waves. In the dark of night, the spotlight shining down on the water, she saw the frogman tugging at the cable; motioning for the rigger in the Chinook to start reeling in.

They'd found him.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	2. The Change

_Gotham City._

_Noah Kuttler and Lex Luthor._

_Businessmen_.

"You really think we can do something with this?"

"The information he possesses will be of great use to us, Noah. I have faith in our capabilities."

"You're sure?"

"You worry too much."

Noah Kuttler and Lex Luthor sat on metal stools at the side of a medical examiner's table. The laboratory around them was darkened, save for three fluorescent lights suspended from the ceiling, shining their harsh white light down on the table.

The body was stretched out on the table, its limbs splayed lazily outwards from their sockets. The eyes were shut, and the fluorescents from overhead reflected dully off the bleach-white skin. The hair was still wet, still matted to his forehead, but it reflected the light slightly better. A crater in his forehead was lined with dried and crusted blood, the compacted metal of a bullet still lodged therein.

Not exactly the best-looking cadaver. But then those were always hard commodities to come by. Either way, this guy wasn't going anywhere for the time being.

This was Maxwell Lord. In another life, he'd been the leader of a Justice League offshoot—the Justice League International—and in another, he'd been the all-powerful Black King of the new Checkmate organization.

But he overplayed his hand.

Maxwell Lord had killed the Blue Beetle for hacking into Checkmate's computer database—the one that contained the secret identities of every so-called metahuman on the planet believe that or not. Luthor didn't take the act so well; he thought it was more evidence of Lord's immense stupidity.

So Luthor, exercising a little fair play, sent Deathstroke, Black Adam, and Zoom to Checkmate's European office—a Hapsburg-era castle in Switzerland. Not wasting any time, Deathstroke shot and killed Lord. Black Adam deposited the body in the English Channel, and Zoom destroyed the castle.

A perfect team effort, despite prior attitudes.

But that was then, this was now. Things were…changing.

"You know," Kuttler said, staring down at Lord's featureless chalk-white face. "Adam wasn't so pleased when you told him to go back to France and find Mr. Lord again. He wanted to know **why** he and Talia had to waste time looking for Max."

"I don't care," Luthor said distantly. He raised his arm, checking his watch. "If Adam thinks he's wasting his time, then he can leave. He's certainly free to."

"I think he thinks that's too much of a gamble." Kuttler said tensely.

"How so?"

"He's pretty absorbed in the fact that Khandaq can't survive without his leadership, and you've done a pretty good job of implying we can help him run his little hamlet."

"We can," Luthor said confidently. "Don't worry about Adam, Noah. He's but a small part in my plan, and hardly something to lose sleep over."

"Don't you mean **our** plans?" Kuttler glanced at Luthor dubiously.

Luthor's eyes narrowed and he folded his arms over his chest.

"Noah, you know I'd never lie to you. You're perhaps the only one here I can trust."

"You mean the only one as smart as you?" Kuttler said with a restricted grin.

"Something like that," Luthor replied. He stood from the stool and pulled a pair of gloves from his trouser pocket. "When this is over, Noah, I promise you…"

"Promise me what?"

Luthor bowed his head, and inhaled slowly. Or perhaps it was a sigh. Kuttler couldn't really tell. When Luthor's head rose again, he was ready to speak.

"They're coming, Noah. It's time to turn enemies into friends and when that happens, I need to know if you'll still stand with me. With **us**."

Kuttler's eyes narrowed and he stuttered a response. "I…of course. Of course, Lex. What you're doing here—this is important. I'm not leaving."

"Good," Luthor said. He turned away from Kuttler and laid a gloved hand on Lord's forehead. "Now do me a favor."

"Yes?" Kuttler said tentatively.

"Leave me."

"Lex?"

"Now." It wasn't a request. It was a command, and Luthor wasn't joking.

_That's the problem_, Kuttler thought as he made for the door. _No one has a sense of humor about things anymore._

Luthor turned his head a few degrees back towards the door. Kuttler stopped short, waited for the motion sensors to detect a foreign object in their field. He turned back to Luthor, pursed his lips and scratched his head. The door slid open quietly, and Kuttler shuffled out.

When the door slid shut again, Luthor turned to make sure Kuttler was actually gone. Then, he turned back to the examiner's table.

"You can come out now," Luthor said calmly.

Two massive panels in the wall gave a brief exhale of air—like a pneumatic engine—lurched forward a few inches, then separated from each other, guided by rollers in the floor.

Hooked up to innumerable cables and power lines, inserting at various points on his frame—chest cavity, skull, arms—all of them feeding directly into his central core, all of them gathering information and assimilating it into his prime program…

Brainiac.

Once regarded as the greatest of his kind, the greatest product the planet Colu had ever produced, Brainiac was originally a humanoid—of a form like the rest of the Coluan species. But that was then, and this was now.Things had changed.Instead of a humanoid with a limited mental program, Brainiac was now a fully functional automaton.A walking skeleton made of steel, nanotechnology and alien sciences Brainiac absorbed in his march across the universe.

Brainiac's robot shell was suspended in the air by the cables in a sort of mock crucifix. Piercing green eyes—based on technology humans would call night-vision—allowed him optimum vision in the most egregious of circumstances.

His skull diode shone a luminous green in the darkness of the lab.

To Luthor, it was terrifying.

Powerful.

Magnificent.

"You know," Luthor said, taking a seat at one of the stools. "I still don't know why you choose to conceal yourself. You're not exactly defenseless."

"Neither am I invulnerable, Luthor." Brainiac's voice was a monotone; mechanized but not entirely inhuman. His technologies had allowed a human-mimicry subroutine to be built in to the vocabulator unit. "My capabilities are not yet at maximum efficiency."

"Still breaking in the new body?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

Luthor cracked a smile, and turned back to Lord's body.

"You know, I almost considered throwing Max here into a Lazarus Pit. Certainly I know where to find one."

"The Lazarus Pit is an ineffectual means to an end. What we require of him cannot be achieved by sorcerer's ways and ancient spells."

"Fair enough," Luthor said, angling his head towards Brainiac. The cables suspending the robot separated from their host and lowered him to the floor. Brainiac clasped his adamantine hands behind his back and approached the lab table. His feet clicked and echoed on the floor in perfect synchrony.

"But don't let Talia hear you say that," Luthor said lightly.

"Humor is an emotion lost on me, Luthor."

"Right," Luthor said curtly. "In any case, shall we get started?"

"Yes."

Brainiac stepped in front of Luthor and held his spindly hands over Max Lord's chest.

"Question," Luthor said pointedly.

"What?" Brainiac pressed a button on his chest plate—what the humans would call a sternum. A small dynamo in his chest powered on. A sophisticated machine such as Brainiac had several redundancies built-in, not the least of which were power supplies.

"When he comes to, what will he remember?" Luthor sounded genuinely concerned. Perhaps he feared blowback from Deathstroke's actions.

"With relatively minor improvements after the initial system restoration, he will be at full capacity in less than ten seconds."

"That fast?"

"My technologies make mockery of the word fast, Luthor. When those ten seconds have elapsed, Mister Lord will be as he was before Deathstroke terminated him: a physically fit human organism."

"With a gunshot wound in his head," Luthor said, turning away.

"Incorrect. Ihave allowed latitude for a tissue reconstruction subroutine to occur. With slight modifications, he will function and appear as a normal human, as I have said."

Brainiac laid a hand on Lord's forehead, and another on his chest—where his heart was. The dynamo in his chest increased its power. Lightning shot from Brainiac's fingertips and Lord's body arched upwards, its nerves suddenly shocked backed into activity.

Electrical energy enveloped Lord. Brainiac increased the power flow. When Maxwell Lord's eyes shot open and he began screaming, the operation was complete. Brainiac pressed the button on his chest plate once more, and the dynamo powered down.

Brainiac regarded Lord for a moment, and turned back to Luthor.

Luthor stood, angled against the wall with his arms folded over his chest.

"The operation is complete, Luthor." Even for a robot, Brainiac's voice was unusually short. "He lives."

"I'd like for **him** to tell me that."

Brainiac stepped aside, and Luthor approached the table. He slid his hands into his pockets and stared scrutinizingly at Lord.

"Max? Can you…hear me?"

After a pause: "Yes."

"Good."

This time raspier, weaker: "Where am I?"

"Among friends."

"I don't…I don't understand…"

"You will. For now, though, you must rest. When you're up for it, I've got some good news."

* * *

_Star City, California._

_Oliver Queen and Connor Hawke._

_Father and son._

"Dad, you got a letter."

"What?" Oliver Queen looks up from his afternoon coffee and copy of the LA Times. Even this far away from the city, Queen was glad they delivered. He'd get murdered when the bill came, but that's for another day.

Connor Hawke shuffles into the kitchen and lays a battered envelope on top of Queen's newspaper. The addressee simply read "Oliver Queen, Star City USA."

"What's this?" Queen asks, pulling the flap from the back of the envelope. "Another NRA membership drive?"

"It's out of country," Connor says abruptly. "Looks like its been through hell, too."

"Where do you think it's from?"

"I dunno. Bermuda?"

"Funny." Queen pulls a single sheet of paper from the envelope, unfolds it and starts reading:

_Oliver,_

_You once helped me get my life back on track. Of course, it took a few arrows to the chest and a near-death experience to do it, but you did it. You beat the hell out of me, tore me down to nothing. But that got me looking inward and thinking. Everyone always laughs when somebody comes in claiming they were beaten up by Green Arrow, and I was tired of being a joke as it was. So I did something about it. I reconnected to my animal namesake. Call it a sabbatical if you will._

_You helped me once, and I'm asking you to do it again; you're the only one capable. You haven't heard this news yet and I don't blame you, but Luthor has formed a type of Society comprised of over 200 villains. They've been recruiting villains over the past several months—myself included, though along with five others I declined their offer for "protection from the League's mindwipes," whatever that meant. Now they're hunting me—the six who refused their offer. When the in-fighting's been neutralized, Luthor will come for you. And your family._

_It's a matter of when. Not if. I know you'll be careful, but I'm warning you just the same._

_-Thomas Blake

* * *

_

_**Continued...**_


	3. The Identity

_Star City, California._

_Oliver Queen._

_Spectator._

The phone rings twice before someone picks up: some distinguished voice with an English accent—none of that Cockney stuff—and plays the nice angle with me.

"Wayne Manor, how may I help you?"

"Yeah, is, uh Bruce there?"

"Who may I ask is calling?" Who does this guy think he is, Higgins trying to keep me from seeing Magnum? Just put me through already.

"It's Oliver Queen sir, and—"

"Certainly, Mr. Queen. I shall fetch him for you. Please be so kind as to hold the line for a moment."

God, these Brits. If ever I needed proof of my exceedingly low brow, they're always there to serve it up. In the time it takes for Bruce's butler to 'fetch him,' I make it through the morning paper to the editorial page. I pour a cup of coffee for myself, cradling the phone between my shoulder and head, and go back to the paper. Connor walks in, half asleep and even less aware that I'm here and brews his own.

"Hey dad," he says through a yawn. He noticed me after all.

"Connor," I say flatly, holding the phone down beneath my chin. "How was your night?"

"Fine, yours?"

"Wouldn't know."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Roy decided to show up around eleven. Took patrol for me."

"So you caught up with Trump's show?"

"Yeah, he fired the hippie," I snicker. Bruce's butler comes back on.

"Master Wayne will be with you shortly, Mr. Queen."

"Fine, thank you," I say, pulling the receiver away so I can hear what Connor's saying.

"Who's on the phone?"

"Uh, Bruce," I say, sipping the coffee.

"I didn't know you and he were on…speaking terms."

"Try not to think about it." I crack a smile and Bruce comes on. At last.

"What is it, Oliver?"

"Good morning to you, too."

"No time for the usual pleasantries. You have something for me? Another conspiracy theory maybe?"

I scoff. "No, Bruce, believe it or not, I'm not **Sage**. But I did get an interesting letter from Catman yesterday."

Silence.

"Bruce?"

"Catman?"

"Yeah."

"You're joking," Bruce challenges lightly. He honestly believes it. And…some part of me does too.

"Not today."

"Alright," Bruce says. I can hear the exhaustion in his voice. A full night's worth of work seems to be catching up to him. I almost feel bad for the guy; the way he stays out all night every night. It can't be healthy. "What was in this letter?"

"You're not asking about Blake? I mean, he **was** one of your guys."

"I'm not asking because I don't care, Ollie. Now, what was in this letter?"

I scratch my head, and think for a nanosecond before I respond. "Something about Luthor and a Society and some Secret Six deal. Sounds like some casino, doesn't it?"

More silence. This is Bruce thinking. Nuts to whoever he's talking to, he's always on the job. Always mindful of that 'mission' Grayson tells me about.

"Alright," Bruce finally says with a sigh. "I'll call J'onn. He'll get you to the Watchtower."

"Fine," I say. By the time I hang up, Bruce is probably already in battle mode. I turn around in my chair towards Connor.

"Hey."

"What?" He asks groggily. The walking dead in my kitchen.

"I'm about to go to the moon. Care to tag along?"

"Sure," he says. "I **do** need to get out more."

* * *

_Gotham City. The Davenport Towers._

_The Secret Six._

_Assets._

"Where the hell are we going, peaches?"

"Call me peaches again, Floyd, and I'll feed you your ear." Scandal's not joking. This is her trying to scare me, and it doesn't work. Even so, I kinda like the ear joke. It shows she's at least got a sense of humor, morbid though it is. Behind me, Parademon and the Ragdoll snicker.

"Heh." Ragdoll shields his mouth with a curved, deformed hand and turns to Parademon. "She makes a compelling argument, yes?"

"Quiet," Scandal enunciates. "We're here."

"Where?" Cheshire interjects. She steps in front of me and points one of those claws in Scandal's direction.

"Our mission objective, Jade."

Catman's standing behind me. Calmly he says: "Tell me something, Scandal. This your idea of a joke?"

"It's no joke Mr. Blake." Scandal leads us down an eerily well-lit hallway; one of the service halls in the basement. One of those 'employees only' deals. A big gray corrugated Utility Door is at the far end of the hall and its getting closer. Mockingbird's latest suicide mission is probably for us to burst in there, guns blazing, and catch Cobblepot or some noble moron with his pants down, dealing drugs to Sionisor some other nutball. _Sorry, Oswald, bad draw._ Yeah…right. I've got better ways to spend rounds than shooting them up Cobblepot's ass.

Scandal stops a few feet in front of the door, turns to us and clasps her hands in front of her stomach.

"Gentlemen," she says. After a pause she turns to Cheshire and gives a more reserved "Lady."

Ragdoll taps me on the shoulder and whispers in my ear. "Very theatric, yes?"

I nod slowly. What's this lady trying to prove?

Scandal pulls a small remote out of her pocket, presses a single red button on its face. The utility door groans and squeaks; the pulleys that power it probably haven't been used in ages. After a few seconds of good-trying, the door shudders a bit and lifts slowly. The six of us watch the door lift into its hiding place in the ceiling, and then our heads drop back to normal. Looking straight forward.

"**This** is our mission," Scandal says, staring ahead.

A darkened room, and a single white light somewhere in the ceiling shining down on a black-colored Admiral's Chair. And a man slouched lazily inside it, with his fingers steepled and the light reflecting off his bald head.

Luthor.

"Mockingbird."

* * *

_**Continued...**_


	4. The Chance

_Gotham City. The Davenport Towers._

_The Secret Six._

_Allies._

Luthor stands from the Admiral's Chair, slides one hand into his pocket. He holds the other at waist-height and starts talking.

"Surprised?" he asks. He seems to be genuinely interested in our response. But we're all silent. Too busy troubling our little minds over the implications of this…revelation. What this means to us.

Luthor is Mockingbird. The bald bastard had me do his dirty work for him the entire time he was in the White House; scaring Lois Lane with an exploding bullet to keep her from going Woodward on Luthor's ass…trying to kill David Cain so he couldn't rat Luthor out to the police. Or worse: Batman.

Yeah, Deadshot the sucker. Deadshot the man who cleans up loose ends. Loose ends Luthor didn't see coming, but he needs someone with absolutely no scruples to do it. Because I'm the only one who can be trusted. Right. Luthor played me. Played all of us.

Luthor is Mockingbird.

Cheshire seems to be the only one confused by the development.

"So…" she pipes in and promptly trails off. "Our mission is to…what?"

"**Kill** him," Parademon says forcefully, stepping forward. He brings up his massive arms and pounds one fist into a waiting palm. But he keeps his distance. Living on Apokolips or whatever the hell it's called, I guess you learn to pick your fights.

"No," Catman says. "We're not supposed to kill him."

Luthor enunciates: "He's right, you know." His voice is utterly calm. Especially seeing as how the six of us could kill him before he even saw it coming. Maybe he's counting on that. Ahead of me, Luthor clasps his hands behind his back and starts pacing. As he speaks, he stares at the floor. Counting tiles or some damn thing.

"And greater besides, you don't **want** to kill me. I'm too essential to you—**all** of you—ad I have great things in mind for the six of you."

My arm shoots into the air in a flash. The wrist-mounted Colt is ready to fire. All I have to do is squeeze.

"You're the one who threatened my daughter. My family." My teeth clench and my jaw muscles tighten. This is me holding back anger. This is my daughter's mother—the woman who by rights should be my wife—telling me that she doesn't want my dirty stolen money; that she can raise her daughter just fine. By herself. It's everything or nothing with me. Everybody wants Deadshot's services but none of the overhead. A gun without a gunman is useless.

Luthor used me. When Lois Lane threatened to go Woodward on his ass, he had me scare the shit out of her with an exploding bullet. He had me track down David Cain, to keep him quiet in case he decided to testify against the White House.

Deadshot the sucker. Deadshot needs the money. He's got a kid, don't you know. Wouldn't it be bad for business to kill him? No orphans after all; Wayne takes the cake there. But…Luthor did front the bill after Cain shot me all those months ago. The man shows his gratitude in strange ways.

"It was a veiled threat, Floyd. I think we both know that. Now…put your arm down." He's calm. Oddly so, especially considering he's staring death in the face. Does he know he could be dead before hitting the ground? Probably. Maybe…he's counting on it.

"What's the catch, Lex?" Catman chimes in. "What do you want?"

Luthor returns to the Admiral's Chair. A smile creases across his face, and he dances around Blake's question.

"Everything that has transpired has done so according to my design. The Eclipso diamond that possessed Jean Loring? LexCorp's acquisitions department sent it to her, after spiriting it away from the, ah, original owner. The Brother Eye satellite? A fusion of my proprietary designs, Batman's genius used against him, and some…off-world technology.

"This Society?" Luthor says and points a finger to his temple. "My brainchild, Mr. Blake. After all, we carry the most dangerous weapon on the planet inside these little skulls."

I glance behind me. The five of them are still fixed on Luthor. How could one man fix this all?

"You've undoubtedly heard of they did to Dr Light? They stole his memories. Changed him into so much less of a man. **Shrunk** that blackened heart of his three sizes in a day. We seek to give it back to him. To avenge his losses and to make sure it never happens again. We want them to learn the **consequences** of their actions."

"Since when do you care about some no-name like Light?" I ask. "He doesn't mean anything to you."

"Oh, but he does," Luthor says quietly, with that convincing smile of his. "He's a rallying point, Floyd. We can help him. And we can help **you**."

Catman folds his arms over his chest. "Who is this 'we'?"

Luthor snickers and pulls a remote from a pocket in his suit. He presses a single red button, and the house lights come on. Rows of harsh white fluorescents shining down, illuminating the entire room. And a group of people surrounding the Admiral's Chair.

"As you can see, I've brought some friends."

Deathstroke, with a sword in-hand, right next to Luthor; Talia, holding an old C-96 Broomhandle Mauser in my general direction; and Dr. Psycho stadning next to Talia—diminutive and as outward appearances go, he's not exactly threatening unless you have a phobia of goatees. The top of his head is just about at her waistline. He's the only one not holding a weapon. Just standing there with a devilish smile across his face and his arms crossed.

Silence.

"I don't want to do this the hard way, ladies and gentlemen." Luthor inspects a hangnail. "You can join us. Ensure that your own minds will be safe from the League's tyranny."

"And if we refuse?" Catman's the bold one.

"There are ways **around** dissenters, Mr. Blake," Luthor says passively. "If you can't help us, then you're only in the way."

"Then we'll be in the way," Blake says. He turns to leave. I glance at him for a send or three, and turn back to Luthor.

"You'll get **Africa**, Blake," Luthor calls after him. "Imagine it. Your own world. So vast you won't know what to do with it. Where no one can get to you for lack of trying. A place you may call your own…to craft in your own **graven image**."

Blake stops short of the door and leans a hand on the frame. His head droops. Way to weigh your options, Blake. After a minute or four, he turns back to the group.

Dr. Psycho starts pacing in front of the Admiral's Chair, glancing at each of us as he goes. He stops only once to wink at me, and keeps pacing.

"Alright," Blake whispers. "I'm in."

Blake seems to collapse in on himself; still holding his head to the ground. I glance at him, and back at Luthor. Psycho's pacing is…distracting. Stand still you horrid piece of crap.

"If I do this…"

"Yes, Floyd?"

"My daughter will be safe?"

"You have my word on that."

"You're sure?"

"After Cain shot you full of lead, who fronted the hospital bill? Who got you out of that hospital and back into life?"

"You did," I say quietly. And I think I understand why Blake was so apprehensive. Getting what you want so easily is one thing. Getting it from a real bastard of a man—one you know is undoubtedly right—that's something else.

"You asked me what the **catch** was," Luthor says intently, steepling his fingers again. "Well, this is it, boys and girls. **Join** me, Floyd. Join the Society, and you will be able to live your lives as you've always wanted."

Luthor stands from the chair. Dr. Psycho takes his place. Luthor walks a few feet from the chair and stares up at the ceiling. Gathering his thoughts, trying to dig himself out of a hole, who the hell knows. Either way, he starts talking again.

"The League's actions are **indefensible**, my friends. Understandable, yes, perhaps noble. But inexcusably shortsighted. They must be punished. This brigade of super-powered—and I might add, **unlicensed**—policemen must be stopped. That is what this Society intends to do. But I need your help--each of you. On your own you're completely useless. Completely **vulnerable**. But together, you constitute a deadly force. Join us—**avenge** yourselves against the so-called heroes.

Luthor stops pacing, half-turns his head to us, and smiles thinly. Dr. Psycho peeks his head out from behind Luthor and smiles. Again. What's this midget trying to pull--a testimonial?

"And when this war is over, we will rule an empire of **man**."

And it comes to me. Luthor sold me out in the past. Used me—like he uses everyone—and then threw me aside. But this is something new. A new chance.

A new wish.

* * *

_The Moon._

_The Justice League._

_Targets._

Connor and I show up to the 'tower a few minutes after everyone else. I bring Blake's letter along for good measure. Clark, J'onn and Wally take it for what its worth—a warning. Bruce and Diana roll their eyes.

"Even if it **is** Blake warning us, we can't be sure he's just blowin' smoke up our ass!"

"Calm down, Oliver," J'onn says. He's the kinda guy who'll take your side, but keep you grounded. He's…interesting like that. Martian intelligence allows for the kind of level head you only see in old episodes of Star Trek.

"He's right," Clark says. "On the off-chance this isn't a hoax—"

"It's not a hoax," Bruce interrupts. "Blake's dropped off the radar since he crossed paths with Oliver last year. It's unlikely this Society has any interest in him."

Clark nods along slowly. "Aside from cannon fodder."

"Then we **have** to see what's going on," Wally pries. When the group looks at him like he peed in the swimming pool, he shrinks in on himself and says, this time more quietly, "Don't we?"

"Yes," Diana says. "We need to check this out. It may give us the lead we need to this 'Society'."

Superman stares out the cathedral-height window, and comes back to us. I could be wrong, but I detect a hint—and not much more—of anxiety in Clark. For a bulletproof man, he's awfully worrisome.

"Alright," Clark says hesitantly. "Bruce?"

"What?"

"You're sure Blake can lead us to Luthor?"

"Very." Bruce says it without hesitation.

"Good." Clark turns to leave. He's heading for the Monitor Womb. "We'll need any available units—Titans, JSA, anyone. I'd like to catch Lex off guard for **once**. Rendezvous point?"

"Goodwin Airport," Bruce says after a pause. "That's where Tim and Bart found Superboy. It's possible that Luthor's headquarters may be static."

* * *

_Gotham City._

_Noah Kuttler._

_Spy._

Their voices are tinny over the wire—not much more than I expected from a substandard bug, thank-you-very-much-outmoded LexCorp technology. The media calls it a wiretap, and that's not entirely true. This little contraption—my own set of ears on the Justice League—is better than a wiretap. More useful. More...clandestine, while we're at it.

It's a bug, in the simplest term; capturing your everyday sound waves, converting them into higher-frequency streams for faster transmission, and emitting them back to a transceiver at base. Sounds advanced? Not really. But I can make out enough. I'll have to thank Prometheus when next I see him; guy plants a bug on the tower back when he was working for Lex and it's still paying off.

Superman's voice stands out the most. _"Rendezvous point?"_

Batman shoots him a reply: _"Goodwin Airport."_

I almost lose some coffee snickering. Wild goose chases are always fun.

Poor Mister Wayne. It appears the League took more than ten minutes. They took away your detective skills. How many times has the Joker--of all people--gotten away thanks to a constantly mobile headquarters? If I weren't picking sides here, I'd almost feel bad for Wayne.

Almost.

I pick up the old-style rotary phone next to me. The '7' button connects directly into Lex's chambers. In the 45 second it takes for the signal to charge across decaying lines, I think about why the rest of us don't have 'chambers.' We certainly merit such treatment, don't we? The other end of the line crackles and hisses, and Lex's voice picks up.

"Noah."

"Good news, Lex. They're looking for us in the Goodwin locale."

"We moved out of there weeks ago."

Lex can't see it, but I'm wearing a smile anyway. "Yes. We did."

"Strange," Lex says distantly.

"What?"

"Call the **reserves**," Lex replies. "It's time to meet aggression with aggression."

* * *

_**Continued...

* * *

**__Author's Note: if you're up for it, I'd love to hear some suggestions on what 'reserve' Societeers (I made that word up;)) should show up when the battle comes to a head. Toss 'em in your reviews--again, if you're interested (like anyone reviews this stuff anyway). Kidding. I know you do:)_


	5. The Setup

_Gotham City._

_The Secret Society._

_Saviors._

"It would have taken the collective swallowing of pride for the Old League to have just turned Dr. Light over to the authorities after what he did to Sue Dibny. But, like it or not, that comes with the job. Superheroes are sworn to serve and **protect** the people, not impose their **will** on us. Once the League crossed that line by manually winning hearts and minds, they became the catalyst for their own destruction. They not only tarnished their reputation, but helped prove that absolute power corrupts absolutely. The Justice Leaguehas become lessa trusting organization and more resembling—as I've said **many** times before—superhuman judges, juries, and executioners. The legitimate issue here is that these people are **dangerous**. Period.

"They must be stopped. And **you** are the men and women to do it. Do you understand?"

They reply in unison, their voices all unusually grave: "Yes."

The Reserve Society members—villains that, while not warranting admission into the core advisory group, are essential nonetheless. With military precision and soldier's discipline (which is strange enough, given that none of them, save one, has ever served in the military in any capacity), they stand before the aforementioned core advisory group of the Society:

Myself; once the President of the United States, now the coordinator of this entire operation.

Talia Head; the estranged daughter of the now-dead ecoterrorist Ra's al Ghul, now in control of HIVE shock troops and the KOBRA organization

Deathstroke the Terminator; once a member of the US Armed Forces, subjugated to a 'super-soldier' type experiment which augmented his physical and mental faculties.

Black Adam; the first man to have the powers of Shazam bestowed upon him, now the ruler of the nation of Khandaq.

Dr. Psycho; an enemy of Wonder Woman, a powerful telepath capable of swaying even the strongest of minds to his will.

And the Reservists. Men who have plundered and pillaged their way into a high-risk and high-yield kind of life; who have made names for themselves out of the misery and defeat of others. Strong, capable men.

Prometheus. Hush. Zoom. Dr. Light.

And standing behind them, the Secret Six. The renegade villains who declined the Society's generous offer for protection. However, as I so explicitly told Thomas Blake some days ago: there are ways around dissenters. Coercion, for one.

After all, there are two kinds of people in this world of ours: assets and threats. Interchangeable they may be, but useful just the same. Perhaps our newest operation will help the League examine which side of the knife they fall on. I have no doubts it will, of course.

The hangar is darkened, as is the benefit of striding into Goodwin Airport in the dark of night; three low-efficiency lights suspended from the ceiling give off just enough light to discern bodies. Tactically speaking, of course, this will work to our advantage. The hangar is—or was—used to house LexCorp Gulf Stream jets. As the jets went out of production nine months ago, the hanger's sat unused ever since. We won't be bothered by…unnecessary callers. Just the ones we wish to bring to us.

The core Society is on one side of a narrow tarmac in the hangar. The Six and the reserves stand on the other. And we seem to be staring each other down, sizing each other up. It's an inspection, of a kind. Are they ready? They should be. Each of them, in their way, possesses a quick wit and a sharp mind. In the event of an unforeseen circumstance…they'll know what to do.

Yes, we've come prepared. As always. The ones who can't fight have been made over so they can. Talia carries twin Ruger pistols on her belt, as well as a link to HIVE reinforcements. Deathstroke is at the pinnacle, as always.Even Kuttler mentioned something about an old Colt .45. Black Adam carries his fists and his strength as his weapons. Dr. Psycho has his mind—and a .25 caliber pistol strapped around his ankle, underneath the pinstripes. And the Six…

My earpiece gives three short beeps. Noah's on the other end, gathering intel or parading around in that old costume of his.I tap my ear, and he comes online.

"Noah," I say expectantly. "What is it."

"You wanted to be kept apprised, sir. Uh, who the League decided to ferry along."

"And?"

"The core League, Lex. Plus two Titans—"

"Which ones?"

"Uh, Robin and the Kid Flash." Noah stutters when he gets anxious…scared. But he has nothing to fear.

"Who else?"

"Aquaman's a no-show. The bug on the Watchtower worked perfectly. They've gotten the Flash and Green Arrow to come. As well as some of the, uh…"

"What?"

"Well…it's sketchy information, but I think they're getting the Old League sir. Black Canary, Zatanna, Hawkman."

My eyebrow arches in surprise and delight at the mention of Hawkman. "Who else?" I ask and smile—slow and confident. "Elongated Man?"

"Hard to tell. Dibny's had a rough couple months. He's off the juice now, you know."

"Then he'll go down easier."

"Right," Noah says dubiously. He wouldn't dare say it aloud, but somewhere inside him, he questions my motives. It seems to be a popular thing to do.

"Thank you, Noah. If you'll excuse me--"

"Where are you going?" Noah's voice is equal parts curious and fearful.

"To get my armor. And to network."

* * *

_Luthor's Chambers._

Luthor presses a finger to his ear. The channel opens to Brainiac's skull-ship, orbiting 22,000 miles above the Earth. Static at first, then Brainiac's eerie monotone chimes in.

"Luthor."

"Yes."

"Are your forces marshaled?"

"Oh yes," Luthor says confidently. "Is your weapon online?"

"Awaiting my command."

"And you know your targets?"

"I am a level-12 intelligence, Luthor, not a fool. As per your request, the targets have been acquired. Do you wish to know of their arrival?"

"Sure," Luthor says lightly. "Unless you have something better to do."

"Satisfactory. I will feed the coordinates to your armor's interface."

"That's good news." Luthor starts pacing. Nano-controls inside the gauntlets bring the armor's weapon systems online: mini-missiles, a 10,000-volt shock net, and the shields. "Then, my fine friend, let's get going."

"Move your forces to the surface. That will draw the Kryptonian to you, and I can view the field more clearly."

"Good," Luthor says darkly. "There is no turning back."

* * *

_Gotham City._

_Archie Goodwin International Airport._

_The Justice League._

"S-Superman?"

The gal running the TSA booth seems much more impressed when Clark flashes her the baby-blues than when, say, Green Arrow walks up with, let's be frank here, amug that would melt hearts. Even so, she lets us through the metal detectors—allseven of us—Batman, Clark, Diana, Robin and the Kid Flash, Connor and myself. When Robin and Bruce trip the detectors, she smiles at us and waves us on through. . I wait for the rest of the group to pass through security. When they're all through we start down the terminal together. The TSA gal waves at me before I start walking, and I blow hera kiss. For good luck.

At least some people think we're still doing the good-guy thing. Outward appearances, I guess it what it comes down to. Different people see us in different lights: good…or bad. Take ten minutes of someone's memory and suddenly you find yourself being crucified for it. Save a lady from getting assaulted in an alley—and still manage to get her purse back to her—and she's forever in your debt. What was that old television show: _Diff'rent Strokes_? Yeah. A comedy back then. But this is real-life stuff. The kind of thing where one slip-up can land you in the hospital indefinitely. Or a cemetary.

That's what we're doing here. Trying to make sure thoe slip-ups don't happen anymore.

Following a weeks-old lead from Robin and Kid Flash—plus an outright warning from Catman—we've come to Goodwin Airport. Apparently, this Society of Luthor's is headquarted 'round these parts.

We make our way through the terminal at a quick pace—all of us—stopping for interviews or God-knows-what-else is a risky thing to do. Period. As we walk, Connor spots a group of teenage gals eyeballing him. He winks, points at one of them (who promptly melts into her seat) and keeps walking. A small child a few feet in front of the group just stands in the middle of the terminal and stares at us with glazed eyes. The group walks by him, and he still stares at us like that proverbial kid in a candy store.

We come to a halt at the end of a t-junction. Two more long terminals lead away from us on either side, with ramps on both ends. There's a panoramic window in front of us that shows the western side of the airport, and a hanger beyond the end of the runway—just inside the tree line.

"There," Superman says, pointing to the hangar.

"What?" I ask. "You found something?"

"Yes," he says grimly. "A thermal pattern. Not much, but it could be something."

Diana throws her two cents in. "Then let's go," she says forcefully. It's not a request either. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she's on some kind of war path. "The kids are with me."

Before any of us can say anything or try to call her off, she's walking away fromus; towards the ramp a few yards away, with Robin and Kid Flash in tow.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	6. The First Wave

_Author's Note: Because, y'know, no good can come from Kid Flash and Zoom--especially when they're in the same room! (as it were). Enjoy.

* * *

_

_Gotham City._

_Kid Flash and Robin, the Boy Wonder._

_Partners._

"I don't like this," Bart says. He folds his arms over the lightning bolt-logo on his chest and hunches a bit. His head keeps going back and forth—left to right in some kind of nervous switchback. He's scared of something.

"Don't like what?" I try to crack a smile to put him at ease. Times like these, I like to think my sense of humor has **some** bearing. I think the move fails when Bart cocks an eye at me and picks up the pace.

"Being out here in the open. We're vulnerable."

"Since when do you worry about vulnerability?" I question. "If anyone here should be worried, it's me. Remember? No super-speed or sight of Athena here."

"But you trained under Batman," Bart replies. "I think even the Marines would love to get that kind of training."

"What?" I ask, turning my head to him.

"Y'know," he says anxiously. "Batman. He's a legend. A walking, talking—"

"Quiet," Wonder Woman says. Her voice is calm and stern. The mother who'll tell you to shut up, but smile as she slaps your wrist. Reassuring or creepy, I'm not exactly sure which one. But it's definitely interesting to watch.

Wonder Woman goes into a crouch and touches her index finger to the asphalt, cracked and weathered. A few weeds look like they're sprouting through, courtesy of the constant beating the planes dole out. Like a lot ofpeople and businessesin Gotham, Goodwin International doesn't seem to notice or care about the decay they do business in.

Way of the world, I guess.

Bart, ever curious, leans his head over Wonder Woman's shoulder and asks, very quietly, "What is it?"

Wonder Woman's head turns to Bart half a degree. "Blood," she says darkly.

"Whose?"

Wonder Woman sighs and stands. "I don't know." She holds her and in front of her face, giving the smear of blood in her hand a scrutinizing look. She rubs her thumb against the smear on her forefinger. For a moment, I almost think she's gonna wipe it on that star-spangled…suit of hers. But she doesn't.

Bart's eyes dart back and forth between Wonder Woman and I. He's nervous. Or bored.

"So what do we do?" he asks tentatively.

_"Dianaaaaa."_

All three of us freeze for a minute. We know what it is—who it is.

"Where's it coming from?" Bart asks. His breathing quickens. Probably afraid to go 3 for 3 in broken legs.

_"PrinnncessoftheAmazonnsss."_

"What the hell is he saying?" I blurt, letting my anger get the momentary best of me.

_"WonderWoman."_

And then he materializes in front of us. Zoom, the walking ghost. Tormentor of Wally for, oh, going on a year now. Wonder Woman throws back the cape from around her shoulders, and pulls out a small blade. Her other arm is protected behind a shield with a single white star in the center.

Her lips curl downward in a scowl, and she holds the blade at eye-level. Zoom is a few yards away, but she could nail him with a good—or lucky—throw.

Zoom fades away. A second later, a loud thud catches our attention, and Wonder Woman stumbles to one side. She rights herself and massages her jaw. Her eyes dart around, desperately looking for Zoom. And she realizes her knife is gone.

"We don't have to do this again, Mr. Zolomon."

_"YessswedoDianaaaa."_

"No," she says. Her hands form into fists and she positions her legs shoulder-width apart. Perfect fighting—or boxing—stance. Seems to me that someone's counting on fighting dirty. "You're lying to yourself."

_"Becauseofwhatyoudid."_

"What did I do?"

_"Raaatther…whatyoudidn'tdoooo.Whatyoucan'tdo."_

Wonder Woman's eyes narrow. "And what is that?"

_"Createabetterworld. HelpthepeoplewhoneeeeditmostAmazon."_

"You want to destroy the world to make it better, Zoom," she challenges. "I want to build on what we already have."

I slide a hand into my belt and wrap my fingers around a few batarangs. Bart just stands there—silent. He closes his eyes, and folds his arms over his chest, inhales deeply, slowly, and lets his out. Bart meditating--if that **is** what he's doing--is something new; I'm unsure if I've ever seen it before.

_"YoursystemisflawedAmazon. Icanrebuildit."_

"You can't do anything, Zoom."

_"OhbutIcan."_ The ghost reappears, standing further away from us, with a hand held against the now-open hangar doors. The interior lights flicker to life, and the bodies in the threshold become visible.

Hush, Prometheus, and Dr. Light—joined by Zoom.

_"AnnndtheSocietycanhelp."

* * *

_

"Alright," I say. "Enough's enough. Now we do it my way."

I barely have time to ready the boxing-glove arrow before Clark's hand stops me from strolling out on the tarmac.

"Oliver."

"What?" I ask forcefully.

"We're going to wait until the rest of them get here," he says slowly, like I'm some child not understanding what we're getting into. Yeah, this is Clark taking the world on his shoulders because he thinks he's the only one capable—the only one who won't get hurt doing it. Guess what, Clarky, we **all** get hurt. Part of the job. Deal with it.

"Who knows how long that's gonna be?" I pressure Clark, sticking a finger on that self-righteous red S on his chest. "You have any idea how far it is from St. Roch to Gotham, because I do and it's—"

"Oliver," Batman chimes in. "Shut. Up."

I shoot Bruce a dirty look. When his expression doesn't change, I back down.

"Yeah," I say quietly—dejectedly. "Okay."

I walk away from Clark and Bruce, find one of those oh-so-nice airport seats and throw myself down in it. Connor sits in the one next to me. For a minute or two, neither of us says anything. Up ahead, Clark and Bruce stare out the window into the night.

"It'll be alright," Connor says reassuringly.

My brow furrows and I glance at the ceiling before turning to Connor.

"No it won't," I say dismally. "But we'll deal with it."

My ears catch a small rumble from somewhere outside.

"What was that?" I say, immediately sitting up. "Did you hear that?" The worst-case robot inside me clicks to life and my first thought is of Diana.

"Yeah," Connor says, standing. The two of us walk back to Clark and Bruce. They're still staring out the window.

"What was that?" I ask. I don't really expect an answer. From here, Clark can hear a woman scream in New York; if he doesn't know what that rumble was then we're all screwed.

"An explosion," Clark says distantly. "There." He points a finger into the night.

Toward the hangar at the far end of the tarmac.

"Uh…"

"What, Oliver?" Bruce asks. It strikes me odd that we're all just standing here watching the world go by.

"At the risk of sounding stupid, shouldn't we, uh…check it out?"

Without a word, Clark and Bruce turn away form the window. Bruce starts running towards the ramp a few yards away; Clark lifts off the ground and flies away. Connor and I break into a run, trying to catch up to Bruce.

'Nother day of wine and roses for old reliable human physiology.

* * *

_**Continued...**_


	7. The Second Wave

_Gotham City._

_Robin, the Boy Wonder._

_Hero._

Zoom leans against the outside wall of the hangar, his arms folded over his chest and his head bowed. He looks like he's smiling. I can't really tell, though; the man's a ghost. Hardly visible to the naked eye.

He has Wonder Woman's knife. He seems to be throwing it in the air and catching it every few seconds. A foot or two away from Zoom, an equally pretentious grin presents itself across Dr. Light's face.

Hush pulls twin Colts from inside his brown trenchcoat and levels them at us.

Prometheus throws back the white cape from over his shoulder and brings out a silver-colored nightstick in one hand.

We're all frozen; staring intently at the four men in front of us. Wonder Woman can't move fast enough to take them without Luthor bringing in another goon squad. Bart seems surprisingly quiet. He's just standing there staring right back at Prometheus. And me…well, as soon as I move my arm, Hush would blow it off.

High risk kinda life here.

Prometheus extends his index finger towards a small button in the middle of the nightstick. Before he can press it, Bart's gone. Stupid Bart. Trying to head him off.

The end of the nightstick crackles to life, giving off blue electricity. All Prometheus does is stick it out on front of him. For a man who can run somewhere just below light speed, he doesn't see it coming. The end of the nightstick crackles and sparks to life. Thin bolts of blue electricity dance around the end of it. Prometheus scowls and extends the nightstick forward.

The voltage hits Bart square in the lightning-bolt logo on his chest. With a painful cry, he falls to the ground. Unconscious—or stunned at the very least. Hard to tell from here, though it looks like he's breathing at least.

The bigger problem, now, is Prometheus, Hush and Dr Light.

Prometheus clicks off the nightstick and throws it over his shoulder like a bindle.

"Care to try for two?" he asks. Clever, or so **he** thinks. I call it pride. It's a weakness.

Wonder Woman grimaces in anger and forms her hands into fists. She's ready to fight, as always. I slide a hand into a compartment on the backside of my belt; go for a batarang. One of the explosive ones.

Prometheus' power comes primarily from his helmet. It allows him to download the knowledge—fighting skills particularly—of others directly into his brain. The upshot is that this information isn't retained indefinitely; the helmet has no hard drive. And so he has to change disks in the helmet to access different knowledge. If I can get to the helmet and override it—or better, destroy it—I can even the odds, if slightly.

He slides one of his hands behind his back. If he has a gun he'll be going for it.

I remember one of the first lessons Bruce taught me. Thre are two types of criminals: the talkers, and the fighters. The fighter will come at you, guns blazing, without thought for himself or anyone in his way. The talker thinks only of himself and so he's always thinking of ways to weasel out of the fight. Luthor, for instance. The perfect talker. Prometheus, Bruce said, is a perfect synthesis of both traits. That makes him dangerous.

Again, pride.

"I hope you know," Prometheus says with a thin smile. "You're impossibly outnumbered. Even if you manage to beat me, you can't change what's going to happen. Because every now and then, the world gets shaken up. And you know what, peaches? I'm the one to do it."

"Hold that thought." The voice booms from somewhere behind me. A blue and red blur streaks past me and knocks Prometheus to his feet. Prometheus stands and stumbles a bit, dazed and confused at what just happened. He's still holding the nightstick.

It dawns on me that Dr. Light has disappeared. And the lights inside the hangar are off now.

Superman lands in front of Prometheus and hoists him in the air with one hand. Superman bats away the nightstick, and it skids away from us, across the battered asphalt.

Zoom materializes behind Superman, and before I can get out a warning, he's already throwing fists. Zoom starts laying into him. Prometheus falls from Superman's hold. Punch after punch after punch knocks Superman to the ground. When Zoom stops for just a moment, Superman throttles him and rockets away from the hangar as fast as he came.

Hush turns to see Superman and Zoom leave, and then turns to see Batman and both Green Arrows coming at him. Oliver's already got an arrow lined up. When he's inside a hundred yards of Hush, he lets it go. Halfway to its destination, the end of the arrow pops open and a green-colored boxing glove presents itself. Hush doesn't have time to react before the boxing glove nails him in the nose and sends him to the ground.

Hush tends to his bloody nose, inspecting the puddle of red liquid in his hand before raising his head back to Green Arrow. Oliver stares down at him intently—if I didn't know anybetter, I'd almost say sadly—and lands a right hook across Hush's temple. He falls the ground, motionless, except for the slow rising and falling of his chest. Unconscious.

Oliver turns away and walks toward Connor, whose already trying to get in on Wonder Woman and Bruce's discussion.

"Zoom?" Bruce asks. "Are you sure?"

"Very," Wonder Woman. "As you can see, he brought Hush and Prometheus with him." She turns around and motions away from the group—where Prometheus fell.

But he's not there.

"So where is he?" Oliver asks.

"I-I don't understand," Wonder Woman says. "He was right here."

"There," Bruce says. He drifts away from the group and approaches the hangar. Without hesitation, he steps over the threshold.

The explosion is blinding. Loud. The shockwaves send everyone flying away from the hangar. Bruce, Oliver and I are the first to stand. Bruce grabs one end of his cape and swings it through the air, trying to fan away the dust.

Oliver coughs a few times. "What…what hit us?" he asks. He turns around and pulls Connor to his feet.

Up ahead of us, dark shapes stand amid the dust.

Deathstroke and Deadshot standing next to each other, with Catman and Prometheus on either side.

Connor leans clsoe to Oliver and whispers in his ear. "Now would be a good time for back-up."

* * *

"Max."

Luthor's voice is quiet. Serene.

"Lex...? What...is it?"

"They're here," he replies. A hint ofsatisfaction creeps in. "Our old friends are back, Max. Everything's working as planned, you see."

"That's...good news."

"Yes. It is. Are you ready to begin?"

"Whatever...you say."

Max Lord's voice is weak. Airy.

"Good," Luthor says. He pulls a small recorder from his pocket and holds it to his mouth. "OMAC protocol, black side; Lord, Maxwell recipient. Activate."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	8. The Fight

_Author's Note: For clarity's sake, I'd like to point out that whenever you see "the Terminator" referenced in this chapter, it's referring to Deathstroke, not Arnold (or the much cooler T-1000). Enjoy.

* * *

_

_Gotham City._

_Deathstroke the Terminator, and Batman._

_Legends._

Slade Wilson reaches one arm behind his back, to the holster slung diagonally across his shoulder blades, and comes back with a shotgun leveled at Batman's head. He does it slowly, though. Like he knows he can get away with it.

Like he knows Batman's intense dislike—or fear, take your pick—of guns will affect him adversely. Deathstroke can only hope. Actually, he can do more than hope.

He can act. Because there are two kinds of people in this world of ours: astronauts and astronomers—doers and thinkers—the people who would observe the greatest phenomenon of our times from the comfort of a lab or observatory, versus the people who would travel into space and see with their own eyes those natural phenomena.

Slade Wilson, by the conventional standard, is a natural phenomenon himself. The fresh-from-the-mill human, yet augmented by science and years of discipline and training. Crafted to become the pinnacle of human ability.

So is the Batman.

They're perhaps the greatest of their kind, Deathstroke and Batman. And yet they serve their so-called fellow man in different ways. Then again, different is a point of view; a **word**, and words alone have little bearing when you live in a world of Super Men and Power Rings.

What matters is what you do.

For yourself, and—rarely even—for others. Perhaps…even the world.

Slade Wilson's bicep begins to burn from the strain of holding an increasingly weight shotgun at Batman's jugular.

"Put the gun down, Slade." Underneath the yellow and black mask, Slade Wilson's eyes narrow. Since when does Batman first-name people—much less people he's known to harbor some degree of…animosity towards.

"As much as I'd like to," Wilson says flatly. "I don't think your friends would stand long for it."

Batman, Slade Wilson entertained to himself with a grin. Paranoid, delusional. Arguably insane, depending on which Arkham zombie you ask, or which purse-snatcher you hold in front of an oncoming train. But there is one thing **undeniably** true about Batman. He has passion. Some would call it pride. Slade Wilson makes a mental note of that. Ahead of Wilson, Batman folds his arms over the spread-bat symbol on his chest. Unimpressed, and with probable cause—as the expression goes.

"What?" Wilson asks. "Oh that's right. You **hate** guns."

"You're committing a crime."

"Am I?" Slade Wilson doesn't move. The shotgun gets heavier. "Me, I'm just exercising some constitutionality here."

"Why are you here, Slade? What's Lex promising you?"

"Is this the part where you try to dissuade me from my fool's errand?" Wilson waits for a response. When one doesn't come, he continues. "Safety, Mr. Wayne. There are two ends of the societal spectrum: war…and peace. However much you have of one directly affects the other. Sometimes, you have to fight a war to make peace."

"Not always," Batman counters. In a flash, he leaps for Deathstroke. The Batman throws a leg to Deathstroke's wrist, and the shotgun falls from the Terminator's hand. Batman lands and pivots on his heel and launches the other leg at Deathstroke's midsection.

The fight erupts around Batman and Deathstroke.

Robin goes for Prometheus.

Connor Hawke and Wonder Woman go for Deadshot.

Catman lunges at Oliver Queen.

* * *

Robin pulls three batarangs from his belt, clutches them tightly in his hand, and readies himself. Prometheus reaches behind his back and brings out a silver-colored handgun. Robin's leg flies through the air, connects to the fingers, and the gun throws itself from Prometheus' hand. Prometheus watches it skid away. In his head, he does a quick calculation; not nearly enough time to go for it. Have to do this one the hard way. 

"No more tricks," Robin says grimly. With his open hand, he beckons Prometheus to him. Prometheus' scowl turns into a grin, and he lunges for the Boy Wonder.

* * *

Catman delivers a sucker punch to Oliver Queen's midsection and rams a knee into the archer's chin. With a thud, Queen falls to the ground. He wipes the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and stares at Catman thoughtfully, if even for a moment. 

"Why?" Queen asks. "What about your letter? I thought the Society was hunting you."

"They were," Blake says. He lifts his leg and kicks Queen across the cheekbone. Queen barely has time to lift his head before Catman has him pinned down; Catman's own foot, firmly pressed into Oliver Queen's jugular. A smile creases across Catman's grizzled features.

"But you see, Oliver, they offered me a most unique prize."

"Oh…yeah?" Queen stutters weakly. "Such as?"

"You. Alive, or dead. But in my possession. You see its one thing to get the tar beaten out of you by Green Arrow. I mean, of all the heroes out there, Green Arrow certainly carries the least amount of sway."

Oliver Queen gasps greedily, trying to catch as much air as he can. Catman's foot presses down further on Queen's neck. "Did you really believe that noble hero angle, Oliver? That I was honestly thanking you for what you did to me?"

Catman releases his foot from Queen's neck, and his arm takes its place. With a single swift motion, Catman hoists Green Arrow in the air.

"I once fought Batman to a standstill, Oliver! I used to be somebody!" Catman's voice is rage and anguish. He calms momentarily, and stares balefully into Queen's eyes. "Now," Catman says quietly. "Now everyone has a gimmick. Everyone wants to be part of the spotlight. Everyone wants their own piece of this useless rock."

Catman's arm begins to ache from the strain of holding Queen in the air. So Catman throws Queen to the ground. Three successive hits—right hook, left hook, right hook, form faint purple bruises around Queen's eyes. Blood trickles out of his nose and mouth, and Queen's vision begins to blur. How did Catman get this strong?

Catman relents and stands. He reaches into the belt round his waist and pulls out tri-blades—a type of brass knuckle that has curved blades at three points along the curvature of Catman's hand.

"Well," Catman says, giving a thoughtful look to one of the tri-blades. "I've been given my corner of the rock, Oliver. Mockingbird's debt to me has been paid. It's time I paid mine to him."

Oliver Queen spits blood from his mouth. With a weary sigh, he speaks. "Yeah? What did this mystery man promise you?"

"The world, Oliver. My kind of world, anyway."

"You're not a lowlife, Blake. You can work through this."

Catman kicks Queen in the ribs and sends him to the floor.

"Don't you get it?" he asks savagely. "I want to work with this. This is a new chance for me. A return to former glory…if you take my meaning." Catman crouches and grabs a tuft of Queen's hair in his hand. He leans close and whispers in the archer's ear.

"I'm taking back my **life**, Oliver. And this time, you **can't** help me."

With a jerk of his arm, Catman slams Queen's head into the concrete floor and waits for Queen to drift into unconsciousness. When there's nothing left but the slow heaving of Queen's chest, Catman stands, dusting his gloved hands.

"Only the Society can."

* * *

The Robin/Prometheus fight started quickly and ended just as fast. As soon as Prometheus launched himself at the Boy Wonder, Wonder Woman dove in behind Prometheus and delivered two blows to the back of his knees. Caught unawares, Prometheus fell to the ground limply. Apparently, Wonder Woman and Connor Hawke made short work of Deadshot. Wonder Woman's distraction gives Robin just enough time to calculate the weak spot in Prometheus' helmet. 

Prometheus glanced around wildly for just a moment, to get his bearings, and then looks up at Wonder Woman. She stares right back.

"You think you can stop me?"

"No," she says with a deceptive grin. "He will."

Wonder Woman reaches down, grabs Prometheus' cape at the collarbone origin and lifts him into the air. A half-second later, Prometheus' world goes dark as Wonder Woman plants a fist in his temple. When his vision clears, Prometheus finds himself on the concrete floor in a lazy kind of prayer-seat He can't move his arms; he looks down to see a golden rope binding his arms tightly to him. Of course, he recriminates himself. The Amazon's lasso. Useful for a polygraph and God knows what else might be on her mind.

Prometheus looks up to see Robin staring down at him. Maybe…if this 'Boy Wonder' was a little taller and had a little more facial hair—not to mention battle scars—he'd be a little more imposing. But today's not the day.

Prometheus struggles and grunts in protest. He knows he can't move his arms—the magic lasso in unbreakable by most conventions. For the moment, he's screwed. Prometheus can't do anything but watch Robin lean over his head and lift the purple-and-silver helmet off his head.

"Sorry, Pro." Robin seems genuinely affected. "Short straw this time." With that, the Boy Wonder let the helmet fall from his hand. As soon as it hit the ground, Robin lifted his foot and crushed the helmet under his heel.

* * *

Batman's size 12 slams into the side of Slade Wilson's head. The Terminator falters, momentarily losing balance and stumbling a few steps. Batman takes advantage of the situation by jamming an open palm into Deathstroke's abdomen. The result is almost all the air expunging itself from Wilson's lungs. When Batman tries to connect a right hook across Deathstroke's face, the Terminator's let arm catches it—barely in time—and twists. Batman's elbow turns and wrenches in socket. Deathstroke focuses half his attention on air intake and another half on watching Batman squirm. He allows himself a minimal smile watching Batman fall to his knees. 

Deathstroke increases the pressure on Batman's hand. The Terminator's free hand slides down his leg, to the bowie knife holster strapped around his knee. Pull back the clasp and wrap your fingers around the handle. Pull the blade out from that stifling captivity and clench it in your hand. Wait for Batman to screw up and then strike.

The only problem therein is that Batman rarely screws up. And when he does, he takes it out on himself.

Deathstroke pulls the bowie knife close to his waist and turns Batman's hand more. At his feet, the Dark Knight writhes, almost contorting himself into some ungodly shape—a ball of flesh and blood that looks like it's just burst from a chrysalis. Batman's persistence is admirable, if grotesque.

Underneath his mask, Deathstroke grimaces. The Terminator looks down and sees Batman turn his head to stare right back at him. In a blur, Deathstroke jams the bowie knife in Batman's thigh, scant centimeters from the groin. Batman grunts in pain—but it's only a grunt; after all, he's got a reputation to uphold. Deathstroke leaves the bowie knife in Batman's leg and goes for a grenade on his belt.

Before Deathstroke can pull the pin, Batman's fist lands in his crotch. Deathstroke groans in pain and stumbles back a few steps. It's just enough for Batman to acquire a batarang and jam it in the top of Deathstroke's hand. Straight down, straight through the skin and the tendons and the muscles. The bloody point slices through skin and the orange fiber of Deathstroke's glove and comes out on the soft side—the palm.

Deathstroke stops and stares at his wound for a fraction of a second. Underneath his mask, he smiles.

"You must be dumber than I thought."

Batman steadies himself, makes his hands into fists. His trademark scowl is firmly entrenched. "Try me," he says. The Dark Knight's voice is gravel.

Deathstroke gives a brief chuckle.

"I don't have to," he replies. Deathstroke pulls the batarang from his hand effortlessly and tosses it to the ground. His head cranes skyward, to an opening in the hangar roof.

And five bodies standing on the edge, staring down at Batman like an animal might look down on prey—studiously, scrutinizing every aspect, and cataloguing it all until itstime to strike.

Cheshire, Parademon, Ragdoll, Dr. Light, and a woman wearing a derivation of a black ninja suit; the gauntlets on her forearms hold retracted twin blades.

"I've got some backup of my **own**," Deathstroke says pointedly.

* * *

**_Continued..._**

_Author's Note 2: The woman wearing the derivation-ninja suit is Scandal, if you hadn't guessed. The way I figure it, with Scandal being something of an enigma in her own book (_Villains United_), not even Batman knows who she is. Maybe that's to her benefit._


	9. The Arrival

Author's Note_: Deathstroke's soliloquoy below about Batman,Thomas and Martha Wayne being gunned down, and the eponymous Fool's Errand,is borrowed from Greg Rucka's novelisation of_ Batman: No Man's Land _and has been marginally edited for context. (hey, if I can plug some good stuff while I'm making my own wacked-out_ Infinite Crisis_, then I'll consider it part of my civic duty:)). Enjoy._

Author's Note 2_: Some of you may undoubtedly hate me for not showing the Batman/Secret...Five (?) fight. But I figure, hey, I'll give Connor Hawke something to write home about--even if Slade did give him one heckuva whuppin'._

_

* * *

_

_Archie Goodwin International Airport._

_Slade Wilson._

_Terminator._

I can't help but smile underneath the mask. Perhaps it's that no one can see me do it that makes the act so…relaxing. It's been years since I've **had** reason to smile.

Joey.

Grant.

Too many kids dead from too many over-hyped power fantasies. Too many parents who indulge their eight-year-olds by strapping a towel around their necks and letting them "fly" down the stairs. Broken necks and broken dreams…when kids think they're Superman.

When they think they can take on the world.

When they think they've seen hell and all it has to offer.

They call me a Terminator, and that's partly true I suppose. I do my job, and I do it better than anyone else. Better than Oliver Queen, better than Ray Palmer, and even better than Batman.

Because I've **seen** hell. I've **been** there; I've lived through it, breathed it in. They haven't. Kent, West, Jordan…even Bruce Wayne. Jesus…

They think that, because their mommies and daddies got shot—that because their wife was assaulted by some yellow-clad maniac—that because they're last son of their planets—they know how the world works. They think they've seen hell, and they can stop it from taking over. But they can't.

My job used to be hell—a hired killer, for lack of a better word. And it overflowed into my personal life. A missing eye, a divorced wife and two buried children later, I'm slowly getting used to it. Getting to the point where…if I can't make my life better. I can make the **world** better.

For Rose.

So no more kids have to die for a pointless endeavor. So no more kids have to stay awake at night thinking they'll wake up with superpowers in the morning—kids thinking they can become something they so obviously can't.

Wishful thinking—false hope. That's the problem with the world. Everyone thinks they can save the world when they can't. They don't see solutions to the problems.

The way to make life better for yourself…is to overhaul. The shorthand is 'out with the old and in with the new.' If you really want to make a difference, you have to step out and take charge—you have to affect change by the most efficient means possible. Sometimes…you have to get your hands dirty.

War…to make peace.

I've known Bruce Wayne for some time now—years, really. And I know one thing if I know a dozen things about the man: he is uncompromising. But he's also an idealist; an exercise in contradictions. He'll break a thug's legs to get information but that's it; no killing. Ever.

Gotham City.

It started here—in the city of young Bruce's birth. Where Thomas and Martha Wayne were gunned down in the streets, where Bruce Wayne felt for the first time the utter capriciousness of life.

His parents had died before him, and Bruce had been powerless to stop it. That single thing, more than any other, had created the Batman. He had dedicated his life to a mission; what Bruce Wayne suffered that night, no one else would.

It was a fool's quest, and he knew it. Doomed to fail before he even started. He couldn't police a planet, could barely police his own city.

He's not noble—or at least he didn't think of himself as such—or even as driven. The situation was far more complex, and yet simpler, than that.

He was the Batman. A force of nature that you tested at your peril. He had no other choice.

Neither do I. Not anymore, anyway.

The way to get through life is not to replace one worry with another—it's to get rid of your worries altogether. For a safe…and secure society.

**Our** Society.

For once in his life, Batman looks…well, unawares. He's standing here, staring thoughtfully at the hole in the roof. And the people up there are staring right back at him. Scandal, in that ninja-knockoff, wearing what she called the Laminas Pesar—or 'lamentation blades' whatever the hell that means. Ragdoll, crouched by the edge of the roof, his fingers wrapped around the mangled steelwork. Cheshire stands gangly next to Ragdoll. She looks like she's trying to seduce Batman to death. Not going to work, Mrs. Harper. Parademon hovers behind them. And Dr. Light seems the most…perverse. He looks awfully confident.

For a man about to die.

Scandal jumps to the ground first, lands in a crouch and stays there for a second or four. The others come down: Ragdoll, Cheshire, Parademon carries Dr. Light and sets him down gently. By mere happenstance, we've done a good job of surrounding Batman. The four of them standing in front of him, with me standing behind.

My ear catches a crack behind me. In a blur, I turn around and throttle the source. Connor Hawke. Green Arrow. Pretender.

"You can't sneak up on me, Hawke."

"Wasn't…trying," his voice cracks. I squeeze tighter, and he tries gasping for more air. This is almost too easy.

"Come now, Hawke. Tell me training with your old man and Ted Grant was worth something. Give me a challenge. I think I **deserve** one."

My eye catches his fist, shaking in place. I risk focusing my attention on it.

"You're angry," I say flatly. "It works against you."

With my free hand, I slap him across the face—hard—three times. On the third try, a cuspid flies out, with blood trailing behind. I inhale deeply and stare at him. Wait for it.

"Didn't those monks teach you to focus your thoughts?" I sucker punch him. "Or were they too busy with vows of silence to make you a man?" Another blow, this one to his ribs. I hear a crack, and hit him again. The boy has no sport in him.

"Too bad," I say, laying a hand on his forehead and forcing him to the ground. "I'll give you this though. You're tougher than Harper. And I ought to know."

He tries to hit me. I pull my head back out of his range and throw him to the ground. Lift my leg and set a size-12 at the base of his skull.

"Move and I'll break your neck," I say flatly. It's the truth. I can hear his breathing—short and impatient—against the concrete floor. I hear a creak behind me: Batman trying to sneak up on me. In a blur, I turn around and sucker punch him in the gut. He doubles over, and I extend an open hand towards the Five.

"He's yours."

I don't wait to see them go to work. I turn around, and I hear Parademon's fists laying in Batman. I smile again, bend down, grab a tuft of Hawke's blond locks, and pick him up. Heavier than I thought. His training with Ted Grant was good for something after all.

I bring him close to my face.

"You're wasting your talents here," I say quietly, playing the empathy card. "You deserve better. Let me help you."

"Sorry, Slade," he says. His voice is weak and gravelly. "I don't make deals."

He gets in one good punch before I kick him in the knee. He falls to the ground, and I reach over my shoulder, feeling for the sword hilt. I bring my arm back down, my hand firmly clutching the gold-colored hilt. Angle the blade at the back of his neck.

"Let's try the old fashioned way."

Clench my teeth, and run the sword slowly along the crest of his vertebrae. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. I smile again. I may yet enjoy this.

"Hey, Attila! Care to take me on?"

I barely have time to turn my head before the Amazon rushes me. She puts that star-spangled shield out in front of her, using it as a battering ram to send me to my feet with relative ease. The sword falls out of my hand. I get to one knee and see her already standing there. She has her sword back in her possession; her arm angled high and tight against her face, the blade inside the fist is ready to strike. Her shield is horizontal on my field of vision—a dome. Like she's going to throw it at me.

"Are you joking?" I ask earnestly.

Her expression doesn't change. "Get your sword," she says. "This should be fair."

I snicker. "Your wish, Princess."

I indulge her and extend an arm to my side, feeling for the sword. Bad business to take your eyes off your foe. Once I find it, I pull it to me and stand in one swift motion.

"Do you even **watch** the news, Amazon? Do you know what I did to the League in Roxbury?"

"Yes," she says, unmoving. "But they have things I don't."

Testicles?

"What?" I ask, good-humoredly.

"Scruples."

And she lunges at me, trying to embed her sword in my gut. I sidestep it and knock her over the back of the head with the hilt. She falls to her knees, and I manage to kick the blade away from her. She falls on her rear, stares up at me. Her eyes are on fire. This one's a kicker. I inhale slowly—it's almost a sigh—and let it go. Tighten my grip on the sword and angle at right between her eyes. If she tries to move…well…she'll be blind again. Irretrievably so, **this** time.

"You overestimated yourself, Princess." My voice is calm—truthful. "Soul of a warrior indeed."

"What are you waiting for?" she asks. This is where Diana's warrior instincts come into play. She's been bested in glorious—albeit anticlimactic—battle and now awaits her fate. Admirable, if snobbish. She seems to be genuinely interested in a response.

I realize that the sound of Batman's muffled voice—and the Five of them beating him down—have subsided. Somebody must have taken the upper-hand there. It's dark out, and the moon is full, casting a chalk-white haze on a wide spot on the floor. My peripheral vision catches a dark shape standing in the light.

I risk turning my head to see a new dark shape standing in the moonlight.

An OMAC—one of Max's so-called proprietary designs (because let's be honest, Max Lord wouldn't know an original idea if it walked up to him and snapped his neck). But not just **any** one of those Observational Metahuman Activity Constructs. This is **the** OMAC. The one Lex has been banking on for weeks now.

Wonder Woman's head angles to see the OMAC. She seems more stunned than I thought she would be. I make a note of that. The OMAC speaks; its voice cold and detached. If it wasn't on our side, I'd almost be afraid.

"Face me," it—**he**—says.

I turn back to Diana, and lift the sword away from her. I extend a hand to her, helping her to her feet—professional courtesy, after all. She glances at me, at the OMAC, and back at me.

"Well," I say, gesturing to the hovering blue nanomorph. "You heard him."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	10. The Attack

_Author's Note: _A note of thanks to Fate8 for scribing this chapter, bringing clarity to muddy waters. Call it a fill-in if you will. Enjoy.

* * *

_Gotham City._

_Wonder Woman._

_Warrior._

The OMAC hovers in the air, eerily silent. Wonder Woman stands before it, her jaw set in grim determination. She is a warrior, one of the very best. But the OMAC is ruthless and relentless, unbreakable in its power. I'm not sure this is a fight the princess can win, but she'll give it her damnedest.

A tinny metallic voice issues from the OMAC. "Target: Alpha Two. Commence elimination protocol." The right arm of the OMAC elongates and forms into a pincer, long and slender. Wonder Woman attempts to use her sword to cut off the protrusion at the wrist, but the OMAC anticipated the move. The pincer traps her weapon, and the OMAC moves swiftly to grab the sword with it's free hand and throw it across the hanger.

I am mildly impressed that it could disarm the Amazon so easily, but the battle quickly draws my focus back to the combatants.

Seemingly undeterred by the loss of the sword, Wonder Woman closes in on her adversary, and using the front of the shield attached to her arm, slams the OMAC hard in the face. Its head rocks back, but the thing manages to grab onto her and hurl the Amazon to the floor hard enough to crack the concrete. As she lay there, the OMAC floats down, a long sharp blade forming from its arm. It pulls back to strike, but Wonder Woman beats it to the punch. She lashes out with a kick to the blue nano-tech covered midsection. The blow is hard enough to send the OMAC through the roof, knocking another hole in the hanger. Wonder Woman does not wait for it to gather itself. Sparing a glance at me, she crouches on one knee and then bursts upward into the sky after the OMAC. I watch her go.

My earpiece buzzes slightly. It'll be Luthor. I tap my ear lightly.

"What is it?"

"Slade. Did you get him?"

I scan the hanger. "Yes, he's coming now."

"Good," says Lex. I detect a small amount of relief in his voice.

Scandal walks toward me, twirling Batman's utility belt like a bolo. Her motion is exaggerated, with one hand on a widely swinging hip, she resembles a catwalk model. She runs her tongue over her upper lip in a display of wantonness. I begin to think she has been spending too much time around Cheshire.

I hold my hand out flat, and she drops the belt into my palm. "How did you disable the electric countermeasures?" I ask.

She gives me a demure smile. "A small battery pack on the backside of his belt," she says. "It was barely noticeable, right behind the hasp. Parademon was kind enough to wear him down, and I punctured the casing."

"What about the gas in the cowl? It didn't go off?" These rather effective gadgets are part of Batman's defensive arsenal, designed to deter any assailants that happen to get too close to the Dark Knight.

"No," says Scandal, a flat dismissive note in her voice. "Probably because we didn't try to unmask him."

Luthor has been monitoring our conversation. "No use in seeing what you already know," he says in my ear. "Have Parademon bring Batman to the Skull Ship. And keep him alive."

I wave Scandal away, and she understands enough to let Luthor and I hash out our business.

"How did you know the sword would work against the Amazon?" I ask softly.

"Intuition, Slade," replied Luthor. "We recovered it from the prototype OMAC we lost in the Phantom Zone a few months ago. It's been lying around the office, waiting for a use, you might say. I figured it was good business to return it to its source."

"Clever," I reply shortly. I hate it when Lex pats himself on the back. "You've got it all figured out then, haven't you?"

He scoffs, then changes the subject. "Keep your head on a swivel," he says. "The alien will be returning, and he may bring backup."

"And you think we can stop him?" The thought of taking on Superman with just the Six in my corner did not inflame me with confidence.

"That's why I'm sending in a surprise," says Luthor. The smugness in his voice puts me on edge.

"For us or them?"

"Them," snaps Luthor. "You'll see. I'd be lying if I said you could take the alien anyway. He's too powerful, and that's why he needs to be stopped."

"So, what did you have in mind?" I ask.

"Brainiac will be waiting," he says. "All you have to do is keep the League occupied." I stare at the sword in my hand. It seems heavier.

"Slade?"

The voice comes from behind me. I whirl around, and see Deadshot. He's clutching a wound on his neck. His costume is streaked with blood, and a major patch of the pattern on his chest has been torn away. He walks forward with a slight limp.

I tap my earpiece again. "Lex, I'll have to get back to you." I disconnect before he can reply. If he has a problem with that, he can just suck it up. I'm not in this for him.

"Hell of a fighter, that Hawke."

"Right," he mutters. "I'll kill the little bastard yet."

"You're going to have to wait on that," I say. "Orders from the top are to stand by." Even as I say it, I feel the doubt in the back of my mind. Luthor's starting to worry me. He has been spending **far** too much time away from the base. With Brainiac. I've heard rumors that he has been spending more and more time in that ridiculous suit of armor he built. I don't like it. At least Lex is flesh and blood. That mechanical monstrosity—Brainiac…he's as alien as Superman, and a good deal less human. Maybe I should talk to Black Adam about it.

Deadshot cocks his head at me, then glances at the beaten body of Connor Hawke lying near his feet.

"Why don't I just kill him now?" he asks. Floyd angles his arm toward Hawke's torso, sighting his wrist-mounted Colt in on the sternum. I grab his elbow, applying enough pressure to get his attention.

"No," I say. "Settle your personal scores later. We've got more important matters to attend to right now."

He glances at me, back to Hawke, then across the hangar. Catman and Parademon are walking toward us, dragging Batman by his cape. Cheshire, Ragdoll and Scandal follow behind them.

"Here," I say, pointing to place on the floor near my feet. I give the Bat a quick once over. "He looks almost as bad as you, Floyd."

Deadshot gives me the middle finger salute and crouches over Batman's prone form. He presses his ear to against Wayne's chest for a moment. "He's a little worse for wear, though."

"That human was not as formidable as I was led to believe," says Parademon.

I spare a look at him. He just stands there stone-faced, arms folded over his chest. I suppose being one of Darkseid's whipping boys would give a guy a different perspective on most things. I toss him Batman's utility belt.

"Take this up to Brainiac's Skull Ship." I forget to hand over Wayne. I can't imagine what use Lex or Brainiac has for him. Luthor's paranoia wouldn't allow him to tell the others about handing Batman over to Brainiac--Lex only told me, and of course, the robot. I need a new trophy, and Bruce Wayne can fit the role quite well.

Parademon nods, then turns to Catman. "Make sure nothing happens to the clown while I am gone, feline man," he says. "I'll kill you if he dies."

Catman sighs heavily. "Right. I got it."

Ragdoll squats down by Batman. "So, this one is incapacitated, yes?" I nod, and return my sword to its sheath. "Then all that remains is to dispose of him."

"Exactly," says Deadshot. He points his wrist gun at the black bat emblem in the center of Batman's chest. He fires before I can stop him. The bullet bounces off the armored symbol, and ricochets off into space.

"Idiot," I snap, and jerk Floyd's arm to the side. "We're not going to kill him. He may still have some value to us. If I wanted him dead, I would have had Parademon break his neck."

"It would not have been a problem, I assure you," says Parademon to no one in particular.

"Uh, guys, we have another problem," says Cheshire. She points upward.

I look up and see Hawkman float down through a whole in the hangar ceiling. I curse under my breath. Someone must have been able to send off a distress signal.

The winged wonder flaps down to us.

"Hawkman," I say idly. "Where's the rest of the JSA? Out fighting Jean Loring again?" He doesn't respond to my jibe, but grips the huge mace in his hands tighter, ready to dive into battle. I draw a gun from a holster slung across my back, and point it at hideously overdone circular symbol on Hawkman's chest.

"Don't even think about it," I say.

"I won't let you hurt him anymore," says Hawkman.

"I don't see how that's up to you," says Deadshot.

I pull the trigger. Floyd fires at the same time. Carter dodges my bullet, but Deadshot grazes him in the shoulder. Hawkman growls and tenses for a hopeless fight.

Scandal flicks her wrists and the lethal blades slide into place. "He's mine," she says.

I catch Cheshire rolling her eyes when she hears the statement.

Scandal leaps forward, slashing at Hawkman with he weapons. He blocks or dodges most of the blows, and the ones that land only leave minor scratches. Scandal forces him to the ground on his back; she straddles him and aims her cutting edges at his gaudy hawk helmet. After a few close calls, Carter decides he's had enough of this upstart. He plants a foot in her gut, and shoves Scandal backward. Deadshot and I sidestep and let her land between us.

Floyd aims his guns, and I draw Lex's "magic sword". We both start for Hawkman, intent on finishing this quickly.

* * *

Wonder Woman had chased the OMAC into the upper atmosphere, hoping the intense cold would slow its functions enough for her to get an upper hand. It suddenly turned on her. 

"Reconfiguring attack vectors."

A beam of energy flashed out of the red center of the OMAC's head. Diana pulled up and was able to just block the assault with her bracelets. She used the moment to sweep in and deliver a double-handed blow into the midsection of the OMAC. The nanotech shell held.

"Accessing sub-routine, Victor Stone a.k.a. Cyborg—Teen Titans." The OMAC backhanded Wonder Woman, sending her spiraling off for a few meters. Its arm took on a new shape. "Sound generator mimicked." A million decibels of white sound washed over Diana. She screamed at the pure force of the attack, which could have knocked her unconscious if they had not been so high in the atmosphere where the sound was muted.

"Initiate termination protocol." A thin blade forms at the end of one arm of the OMAC. Wonder Woman had recovered enough to see the strike coming, but not enough to escape unscathed. The OMAC's blade sliced into her shoulder, drawing a sharp bark of pain from the Amazon.

"Reconfiguring." The OMAC withdrew the blade, and prepared to make the kill with another thrust.

Diana shut out the pain from her shoulder wound, and concentrated on the OMAC. It plunged forward again. Wonder Woman shifted slightly to the side and caught the OMAC's arm. Without hesitation she used the momentum of the attack to drive the blade back into the OMAC, piercing its side.

Pushing her advantage, Wonder Woman grabbed the OMAC by the neck, and began to punch it in the face. After ten earth-shattering hits, the blue shell began to crack. Diana redoubled her efforts, and in another few moments, the nanotech broke apart, revealing the true face of her attacker.

Wonder Woman gasped in shock and surprise. Staring back at her with soulless, grim eyes was the face of Maxwell Lord.

* * *

_**Continued... **_


	11. The Death

_The skies over New Jersey. 31 miles above the surface of the Earth._

Maxwell Lord.

For years, he led the Justice League's International team. Lord came out of nowhere and wrested away leadership of the League from Batman. He held a deep contempt for the metahuman community and sought to take them down by keeping them close. At some point, Max became one of Checkmate's highest officials—it's Black King—and increased his own power over the organization in a criminal fashion. From his connections to the Justice League, he managed a coup.

In secret, Lord obtained data files from the Batman, virtually from right underneath his nose—detailed dossiers on the entire super-hero community. Second, he stole Booster Gold's futuristic android counterpart, Skeets, and used the robot's circuitry to spy on heroes via Ted Kord's goggles in his Blue Beetle suit. But Max went too far when he began sabotaging Kord's private ventures, vicariously draining Kord Omniversal of its assets and brining Kord himself to the brink of destitution. Concerned with the mysterious actions in his life, Kord began an investigation that inadvertently revealed the spyware in his goggles. To that end, he tracked Lord to Checkmat'es European installation in the Swiss Alps.

Kord had found out the extent of Lord's machinations—partially through examination of Checkmate's computer systems, and partially because Lord himself owned up to everything. Lord's intention was to recruit Ted Kord to his cause—to help Lord save the world from metahuman threats. When Kord refused, the Black King shot him.

* * *

What's Max Lord doing behind this OMAC shell? The question is…vague. Wonder Woman doesn't have an answer. Her mind entertains several possibilities. Ted Kord's arrival at the Watchtower not two months ago, and his subsequent discussion with her about his woes—and his untimely death. Superboy's attack on the Teen Titans, and the destruction of the Brother Eye satellite. The attacks from the Society at Goodwin Airport. All of them orchestrated—manipulated by two men. 

Max Lord and Lex Luthor.

Was Kord in the way of their plans? Were the two of them working together against him? Or possibly even the entire League? The evidence is damning…but without physical presence, it's little more than a lead.

Why was Max Lord prisoner to his own creation? Who put him up to this?

"Diana."

Wonder Woman hovers in the air, miles above the surface of the Earth. She turns to see Superman a few feet away, his red cape draped tightly around the body of a man. No, she thought. Not any man. A Superman. Invulnerable, untouchable…and as human as any of them.

"Clark," she says quietly. "Where is Zoom?"

"The Bikini Atoll," the Man of Steel replies shortly. "Considering his options."

Wonder Woman looks down at her hands, and realizes she's still holding Max Lord. The OMAC armor hasn't switched off yet; the blue shell still covers Lord, except for his head and just below the collarbone. His black polo shirt crumpled in her fists. She stares in Lord's glazed eyes, and they stare beyond her, into the vastness of space.

"What happened to him?"

"I don't know." The Amazon's voice is calm. "He came out of nowhere, attacked me at Goodwin. I thought…if I brought the fight up here, I could stop him."

"He was an OMAC?" Superman asks.

"Yes," Wonder Woman answers.

Superman's eyes narrow. Wonder Woman has seen the expression too many times not to know what he's doing—scanning the body with those powers of his. "His pulse is weak. I can tell even from here."

"Is he dying?"

"Dead and brought back is more like it." Superman approaches Wonder Woman. She picks up Lord and cradles him in her arms. "X-ray vision's picking up burn marks on his chest. Lots of scar tissue at the base of his skull." Superman's eyes return to Wonder Woman. "Somebody killed him, Diana. And now he's back."

"Why would they do that?"

"Wrong question. What we should be asking…is who could have done this?"

Wonder Woman stares away, at the Earth far below her. Rolling blue oceans cutting into lush greens and browns and, dotted across the landscape, spikes of black on the land. Cities. She looks back at Superman. "There are maybe three people we both know—and that's a big maybe—who know how to reanimate…things. It's a question of technology. Who has a lab large enough to pull this off?"

"Luthor," Superman says pointedly.

"You're jumping to conclusions."

"Am I?" The Man of Steel turns to Wonder Woman. "He has means. Opportunity."

"What opportunity? Why would he kill Lord just to bring him back?"

The Man of Steel stares up at the darkened sky, glittering with billions of stars spread across the ecliptic. And staring at the stars—their simplicity, and beauty—it comes to him.

"It's a foil," Superman says. His voice is airy—stunned. "He's distracting us."

Wonder Woman hands Lord over to Superman slowly, delicately. He stares down at Lord's face and the dried blood underneath his nostrils. "I'll take him to the Watchtower—"

"What?" Wonder Woman questions. "He killed Ted. Do you understand that?"

"A man's life is on the line, Diana. I'm going to at least **try **to help him. Go back to Goodwin. See what's going on. And Diana?"

"Yes?"

"Get help."

Wonder Woman spares the Man of Steel a glance, as if to silently ask him to reconsider. But he won't, and the Amazon knows this. Clark Kent is too altruistic for his own good.

"Please," Superman says.

The Amazon turns away from Superman promptly and turns away, flying back to the surface.

Max Lord shot Blue Beetle at point blank range, killing him instantly.

Doesn't that mean anything, Clark?

"Help Max, will you," she chides to herself. "Why didn't you help **Ted**?"

* * *

It took Arthur Light twenty minutes to work up the courage to enter the hangar. After all, he was—even given his talents and his mean streak—less powerful than anyone in that hangar, with the possible exception of Dr. Elliot. 

For those twenty minutes, there had been isolated fights between the Leaguers that had shown up, and the members of Luthor's Society. Kid Flash and Hush were the first to go down, followed by Prometheus. Catman and Green Arrow fought off and on—when one was worn down enough, the other left him alone, until further provocation prompted another fight. Deadshot had been beaten by Connor Hawke and Hawke in turn dispatched by Deathstroke. Scandal and Cheshire stand in the middle of the room like wide-eyed schoolgirls, gawking at the action happening around them. A meter ahead of Light, Parademon regards the gold-colored strap in his hands, and lifts into the sky through a hole in the hangar ceiling.

Dr. Light stares around the room in a haze. Catman's going at it with Green Arrow again. Deathstroke swings his sword at Hawkman, and the winged warrior parries with his mace. Deadshot, having somehow found his way back to the fight, and Connor Hawke are in a straight-up fist fight. Scandal and Cheshire stand in the middle of the room like wide-eyed schoolgirls, gawking at the action happening around them. Ragdoll's fighting—and losing—against Robin. The Boy Wonder pulls electrified batarangs from his belt and slaps them against Merkel's chest. A second later, they go off, covering Ragdoll in blue-white bolts of electric power. He cries in agony and falls to the ground.

None of the fights are self-contained. Catman kicks Green Arrow in the crotch and the archer rolls into Robin's legs, knocking him to the floor. Scandal takes the opportunity to pin the Boy Wonder to the floor by jamming her wrist-mounted blades into the ground on either side of the boy's wrist. But the Boy Wonder doesn't stop to look for his enemy. He forces his head upward, ramming Scandal in the jaw. Dazed, Scandal falls back. Her blades pull from the ground, freeing Robin. In another lightning-bolt movement, Robin lands four punches in Scandal's abdomen, and two more on each side of her face. He throws one of his legs out behind him, and catches Cheshire in the stomach. The green-clad assassin falls to the ground.

Two down.

Deathstroke flashes his sword in the air, trying to draw Hawkman's attention. The Terminator draws his sword close to him, and promptly jabs at Hawkman's chest. The edge of the sword clips Hawkman's rib cage. Blood trickles down his chest towards the waistband; Carter Hall ignores it and keeps up a defense.

* * *

Twoo minutes into the fight, Deadshot's fortunes turn. A calculated roundhouse kick to Deadshot's face—where Lawton shielded his face with crossed arms—destroyed the Colts mounted on his forearms. The pieces fell to the ground, and Floyd Lawton stared at them for a second afterward, unbelieving. He brings his head back up to face Connor Hawke, and meets a solid right hook to the nose. 

Floyd Lawton falls to his knees, his nose broken. Hawke lifts a knee and jams it in Lawton's chin for good measure. One down.

* * *

Green Arrow catches Catman in a bear hug and flips him in the air—over Queen's own body. Catman falls to the ground flat. His vision cuts out momentarily from the impact on the back of his head. When the world around him becomes clearer, Catman finds himself massaging the throbbing pain at the base of his skull. He gets to one knee slowly, and sees the shadow on the floor in front of him. Green Arrow. With that impressive bow of his in hand. Green Arrow doesn't waste any time. He grips the bow firmly and swings it across Catman's face with a resounding thud—the sound of composite fiberglass impacting and shattering Thomas Blake's cheekbone. Green Arrow watches Catman fall to the ground. 

"You were never warning me," Arrow says quietly. "You were baiting me. What a waste."

* * *

Deathstroke swings his sword up behind his head and brings it back down on the Nth metal of Hawkman's mace. Neither one of them can gain an upper hand. Deathstroke forces his sword closer down on Hawkman's mace, grunting as he exerts the effort. Hawkman grits his teeth. Without explanation, Deathstroke pulls the sword away and raises it over his head. Hawkman stands away from Deathstroke and tightens his grip on his mace. A small persistent buzz in his ear catches Deathstroke's attention. He raises one arm and taps his ear, saying nothing, keeping his eyes on Hawkman and his sword ready to strike. The voice in his head is Luthor. 

"Pull back," Luthor says succinctly. "We'll be down shortly."

Deathstroke taps his ear again, terminating the connection, and back steps—away from Hawkman. Underneath his mask, Carter Hall frowns. Something doesn't fit.

"What now, Slade?" he asks. "You're out of tricks."

Deathstroke holds his index finger to his mouth. "You'll see."

Hawkman **felt** it, actually. First, at the top of his skull, then traveling down his spine to his legs and fingertips. A tingling, burning sensation. A thunder from the sky. Electric fire in his very body. Everywhere and nowhere, and as fast as it had come, the electric shock had passed. Hawkman's mace fell from his hand, and he slouched in place, though still standing. Carter Hall's head sinks to stare at his hands—blistered and tingling. When he looks back at Deathstroke, Carter Hall sees two more bodies ahead of him. A man in green armor hovering in the air behind Deathstroke's right shoulder, and gaunt robot standing next to the Terminator. Luthor…and Brainiac.

"Did you really think you could beat him, Hawkman?" Luthor laughs. He's extremely amused by the situation. "That you could defeat Deathstroke, of all people?"

Hawkman says nothing. His breathing is slow and laborious. The lightning strike—if indeed that's what it was—has left Hawkman's abilities at far less than considerable.

"The fusion output from Brainiac's ship is **more** than enough to deal with you," Luthor chides.

Hawkman inhales sharply and wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth.

"Go to hell," he mutters weakly.

"Your arrogance **blinds** you, Carter. Now you will experience the consequences of the life you choose."

Luthor raises his arms, decked out in green and purple gauntlets. And Hall feels another fire in his body. Luthor's power beam—or something like it—eating away at Carter Hall—destroying him.

"Luthor!"

Luthor's head snaps to the right. To Wonder Woman, the Amazon. And Zatanna—the witch—standing beside her.

"Diana," he says calmly. Almost…amused. "Have you come to witness the repercussions?"

"Of what?" she asks pointedly.

"Your super-heroics." Luthor's voice is flat. Behind him, Brainiac peeks his head out furtively. Observing the situation with a scientist's scrutiny. Dr. Light glances at Luthor and Wonder Woman—unsure. "Because every action has an equal and opposite reaction, Amazon."

Half of Luthor's mouth curls into a smile. "Arthur, she's yours."

Dr. Light cocks his head in Wonder Woman's direction. He pulls a fist back, and launches himself at the Amazon. She sidesteps his attack with ease, lets him pass by her, and grabs a tuft of his cape. She hoists him off the ground and pulls him close to her face, staring straight into his eyes. Few people can stare down Wonder Woman convincingly. Arthur Light isn't one of them. He swallows the saliva at the back of his throat and raises an arm. The Amazon's free arm catches Light's in mid-air and snaps it with one swift motion.

"Unwise," she says. Light tries to hit her with his other arm. Before he can, she throws him to the ground—hard. Wonder Woman crouches, rips off Light's helmet, and pulls his head up to face her.

"You're the one—" The Amazon punches Light across the face once. "—who raped Sue Dibny."

She punches him again.

"Monster," she says. Light has all but given up; he's gone limp in her arms, barely cognizant enough to hold his head up. It's...too easy.

"No!" Light manages in a momentary show of force. His voice calms again, and he pleads with the Amazon. "Please…"

Wonder Woman is unmoved. Her mouth forms into a scowl. She lets Light drop to his knees, and places her hands around his neck in a loose circle.

"You stole her dignity…" the Amazon trails off. "And you got away with it."

Wonder Woman punches Light again. His cheekbone shatters; blood and teeth spew from his mouth. Luthor, Brainiac, and Deathstroke watch from mere feet away. Luthor seems to be the most engaged.

"Good, Diana, Good!" he enunciates, and chuckles. A wide, wicked smile crosses his face. Luthor speaks again, this time more sanguine; relaxed. "Kill him."

Light's head snaps towards Luthor, aghast. His eyes are wide, brow furled in confusion. His lips are pursed as if about to speak. But the words don't come. Wonder Woman's head rotates to Luthor slowly. She seems to tune him out.

"Kill him **now**," Luthor says calmly. Light's head turns away from Luthor, to the floor. He shrinks a bit.

"I could finish this now…if I cared to," Wonder Woman says quietly. She seems to be thinking aloud. Considering the outcome. What can be lost? What would be gained? Would it matter? What was it Clark's father always said? _When the fox gets in the henhouse, you have to kill it, unless you plan on losing more hens._

_Sometimes, monsters have to be dealt with._

"Again. And again, Diana," Luthor says. "The courts will send them to prison or to **Arkham**. They will escape. And you'll have the same problem. Again, and again. You know the system is flawed. That justice belongs to the judge—the qualified, most capable party."

"Diana." Zatanna says her name, and lays a hand on the Amazon's shoulder. "Don't do this." Wonder Woman's head ratchets around and stares at Zatanna, stopping the magician dead in her tracks.

Wonder Woman tightens her grip on Dr. Light's neck, and grits her teeth.

Yards away, Batman's eyes flutter open. The scene before him is blurred—a dream world. Wonder Woman throttling Dr. Light, with Luthor, Zatanna, and Brainiac looking on.

"**Do it**," Luthor says, his voice more guttural this time.

Wonder Woman's hands quickly meet each other, crushing Arthur Light's cervical vertebrae between them. His body spasms for a few seconds after the fact, and then falls to the ground in a huddled mass. Dead.

Connor Hawke saw it, and thought it was about time.

Robin saw it, and came to a similar conclusion.

Oliver Queen saw it, and cursed under his breath.

Luthor saw it, and smiled.

Brainiac saw it, and noted that objective 219 had been fulfilled.

Arthur Light was dead, and Wonder Woman had killed him.

* * *

_**Continued...

* * *

**_

_Author's Note: _see if you can guess which movie I homaged the Dr. Light death scene (for lack of a better description:)) to. You might be surprised. Or not. Cheers._**  
**_


	12. The Impostor

_Author's Note_: I'm told that (effectively) writing Superman is numero uno on the list of daunting things to do in the comics business. So while I may not be receiving a paycheck for this chapter, let me know how effectively Superman came across. Because if you're all anything like me, characterization is an extravagantly large part of any good story. And a hat tip to markmark261 for the _Revenge of the Sith_ guess last chapter. As for Superman's teleportation from the Moon to Goodwin later on this chapter, I put it in in the interest of saving Clark the effort--and because I always liked the teleporters.

_Author's Note II_: Some of you may think I've finally lost it and gone off the deep end into confusing waters when you see who's **really** teaming with Brainiac. It might not break the internet in half (and it might not even be crystal clear to you, in which case I'll accept the criticisms) but if I can get some kind of response from you, constant readers, please consider us even. Cheers.

* * *

_The Moon._

_Justice League Headquarters._

_Superman._

He did this. Luthor. He did **all** of this.

He's the one who sent the Black Diamond to Jean Loring, transforming her into that…thing. He organized the Society and the Six, independent of one another, then set them against each other. He took control of Superboy—Conner—and sent him to destroy Batman's satellite in space, and then try to **kill** the League. Under Luthor's sway, Conner broke Bart Allen's leg and almost killed the others.

But how? The why is simple: only through Superboy could Luthor even hope to defeat me. But that plan fell through, like so many of his.

How could Lex manipulate so many things to his favor? How could he possibly know what he knows? The bigger question: what does he know? He's always been a secretive man. Never confiding in anyone—not any of his eight wives before him, not any of his previous affiliates on the Injustice Gang, not even me when a Kryptonite asteroid threatened to destroy the planet.

No. He ran, like he always does, with his tail between his legs. He runs ands finds the nearest soundproof and lead-lined lab he can, sets up shop, and starts the process all over again. Luthor's an idealist of the highest order. Seeing an opportunity and taking it, no matter the cost to himself. As long as he meets his goal of killing or defaming me, Lex's life has achieved…meaning.

Why was Max Lord inside that OMAC? Luthor's hand is too obvious to be overlooked. Maybe that's what he's counting on. So what's Lex planning? Why was it so important to send Max Lord, already inches from death, on a suicide mission?

* * *

_Gotham City._

_Lex Luthor._

_Mastermind._

Dr. Light is dead. Deathstroke sideswipes Zatanna in the head with his nightstick and starts trading blows with Wonder Woman. Brainiac presses a button on his chest frame that activates the transporter on-board the Skull Ship. Yards ahead of the automaton, Batman's prone form blurs and fades away. In approximately three hundred twelfths of a second, he's onboard the Skull Ship.

Where he should be. Where he needs to be.

For the plan to carry itself out as intended.

* * *

_The Moon._

"Superman?" The Man of Steel's earpiece buzzes.

"J'onn? What is it?"

"There's been a situation at Goodwin. You need to return immediately."

"Can't you—"

"Immediately, Superman," the Martian presses. And then more calm: "Please."

* * *

_Gotham City._

I watch Deathstroke trade off with Wonder Woman with great interest. As always he's planned for the fight—even including the sword recovered from Leone. He cuts a thin stripe across Wonder Woman's chest—just above the cleavage—and blood seeps out. He comes at her again, and she blocks it with one of those wristbands of hers. Surprisingly, she wraps her free hand around the blade and yanks it from Deathstroke's hand, flips it around and presses the tip against his Adam's apple. Knowing he can't win without going mute, Slade plays along. The Amazon just stands there, eyeing him carefully. Considering whether or not to skewer him. Clever, or so she thinks.

I turn my head to Brainiac. Monochrome green stares back at me.

"Do it."

The automaton extends a hand in the Amazon's direction, and a blue mass stretches across the void to surround her. Trapped, as the plan—and a level-nine intelligence—has called for.

Deathstroke and Amazon are separated from each other. I turn back to Brainiac.

"Teleport Psycho."

A moment later, a diminutive man in pinstripes and a red tie materializes next to me. He glances at me only once to wink, and then turns back to Wonder Woman. And Zatanna.

The witch.

A creature of such a vulgar discipline…what place does she have among gods? Even stranger is her pose. She anchors herself to the floor, her legs shoulder-width apart, and throws a hand in front of her.

"Ekortshtead pots!"

A reverse-spell. Almost as bad as Thawne. Again, clever. This contest will be decided quickly.

"Psycho." I say it shortly. "Stop her."

Psycho clears his throat loudly—annoyingly, and waves dotingly at the witch. With Deathstroke stopped and the Amazon encapsulated in Brainiac's shield, her attention can risk looking at Psycho.

The diminutive man chuckles and enunciates: "Let him go, witch."

"No," she replies, without missing a beat. Admirable. Psycho snorts, glances at me as if looking for an answer, and turns back to Zatanna.

"You know who I am?" Psycho's voice rises. I get the distinct feeling he dislikes being talked down to. "I can make you eat your **hair**, witchy woman! And that crap doesn't digest; you'll eat so much, you'll explode into the human fur ball!"

"Do what you like, Doctor. But as far as I'm concerned, you can all go to hell."

Psycho's eyes narrow and he speaks more slowly this time.

"Let's try again." He waits for a response. It doesn't come, and he presses on. "Release him now. Or I'll kill you."

The witch stares back in Psycho's eyes—penetrating blue eyes, and the curt smile across his stubbly face. Her eyes lock on Psycho's mournfully, and he blows her a kiss. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a .25 caliber handgun, sighting it in on Zatanna's forehead.

"Ekortshtead…si eerf." Her voice is broken patterns of speech. Fearful. Sad. Too bad.

Deathstroke falls out of the trance, falling to one knee, presumably gaining his composure. The act is highly unusual, though. Considering his heightened faculties, his acclimation should proceed 67 percent faster than a normal man. Deathstroke must be getting old—or the effects of the military's experimental serum wearing thin. Either way, it warrants…monitoring.

Dr. Psycho watches Deathstroke get to his feet and readjust to the environment, goes back to Zatanna. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost wonder why she hasn't pulled a spell—

"Ohcysp—"

With little effort, Psycho pulls the trigger and Zatanna's head explodes—blood streaming in all directions and the bigger fragments of skull and flesh falling to the floor. The body collapses in three-tenths of a second.

I raise my gauntlet and glance at the digitized display. "Twelve o'clock Brainiac." I turn to him, smiling. "All's well. Let's go home."

He presses the teleporter button on his chest frame, and through the open hangar doors my vision catches something on the horizon. On the periphery—tiny, but noticeable.

The Alien. Coming for me, or so he thinks.

I turn to Brainiac quickly. "No time for him," I say. The world goes blurry for a moment as the teleporter prepares to transport Brainiac and I to the Skull Ship. Energy bands appear around Deathstroke and Dr. Psycho. They'll be transported back to their headquarters in the city.

Inside one-point three-nine-four seconds, Brainiac and I are back aboard the Skull Ship. Batman's body—still prone—lies a meter ahead of us. And beyond that, our most valuable prisoner.

On his knees, as he should be, behind the energy-field of the brig. Wearing that ridiculous business-suit of his—which I'm unsure how he ever managed to get along with.

Lex Luthor. Of the positive-matter universe anyway. He raises his head and shoots me a dirty look. After a minute of watching him, I snicker.

"What!" he asks irately. He doesn't like being on the receiving end of things.

"You," I say flatly. "I wanted to thank you. Without you, I wouldn't have known where to find an effective means of stopping the Amazon."

"You're welcome," he grumbles quietly.

"You…disapprove?"

Luthor's head rolls up to stare me in the eyes. "Why haven't you killed me yet?" he asks expectantly.

"Because I don't want to," I say. "It's not in my nature, and you're too useful to simply discard."

"You've limited experience on this Earth. Let me help you," he says intently. "I know how these heroes work; I can get you what you need."

"I sincerely doubt there is anything your feeble human intellect can offer me."

"But **you're** a human!"

"Incorrect," I say pointedly. "**You** are human. I am Luthor."

"You're a fool," he challenges. "A damn **fool**…if you think you can just walk in—"

"I already have." My voice is just forceful enough to shut him up. "In any event, you will not be harmed. In fact, you may yet be of some use to me."

"Oh?"

"Yes," I say intently. "Tell me about the OMACs."

His eyes narrow and he sighs wearily. "What about them?"

"I want to activate them. **All** of them."

* * *

Superman teleports into the hangar at Goodwin Airport mere minutes after Luthor and Brainiac had escaped with Batman in their custody. Around him, he sees the bodies of fallen team-mates and friends alike. Yards away from the Man of Steel, Connor Hawke fits handcuffs around Deadshot's wrists. Moonlight shines in through skylights in the ceiling, the whitewash light forming itself across Hawke's shoulders. Closer to Superman, Green Arrow does the same to Catman. 

"She what?" The Man of Steel turns back to Robin slowly. When he speaks, his voice is equally slow.

"It was just after Lex and Brainiac showed up. I think it could have been Dr. Psycho using his telepathy on her. But…either way, she snapped Light's neck. Body's right over there."

Robin points to an arrangement of I-beams, and beyond them, Arthur Light's huddled body. His head stares blankly at the ceiling. The skin was already starting to lose its tint. Every few seconds, Robin noted, Light's right eye would twitch. Postmortem spasms. The sight was horrifying to Robin…

And yet he couldn't take it his eyes off it.

Fact of the matter was, the Boy Wonder had seen too many crime scenes in his already young life. Too many gruesome murders committed by some wackjob out to prove something. To Tim Drake, Arthur Light's corpse was another part of the business.

"Are you sure?" Superman's voice is calming to the Boy Wonder.

"I saw her do it, Superman," Robin says pointedly. "I'm quite sure."

"Hmm," the Man of Steel trails off. After a pause, Robin speaks up.

"What do you want to do?"

"She should have waited for someone to arrive. Did you see where she went?"

"No," Robin says sheepishly. "Sorry..."

"Let's get back to the Watchtower," Superman says curtly. "See what we can make of this."

Tim Drake's mind shifts—as it often does—to his mentor. Bruce Wayne. When last seen, Wayne was being teleported away. Tim Drake had no idea where to, though.

Wayne had spent time in several police forces, and with the FBI at Quantico, in his quest to serve Gotham more effectively. He had quickly come to learn what others had long suspected—that methods police use are brutal, often lethal. Unacceptable to Bruce Wayne.

Murder was never a conscientious objective for Wayne.

But Tim Drake is different. He's not a cop, and probably never will be one. But his job is a shade just below a cop's. He does what other cops do—if slightly outside the limits of the law. Sometimes monsters have to be dealt with. Monsters like Arthur Light. Sometimes…that's why men like Batman exist. To serve and protect. No matter the cost to themselves, no matter whom they drive away, or what awaits them at the end of their life.

There are people in the world who would willingly give up hope just to see a glimpse of a self-sustaining populace, one where Super Men don't **have** to exist. One where decent people can take care of themselves.

Right now, with Superman at his side, staring at Light's dead and cold body, Tim Drake hopes he is one of those people.

* * *

_Gotham City._

_The Hill._

_Headquarters of the Society._

"What do we know? Calculator?"

"That a man wearing purple and green armor showed up a **week** ago calling himself Lex Luthor. We've since discovered, thanks to Degaton, that it's the Luthor from the antimatter universe—where Sinestro escaped to after his fight with Jordan a few months ago, and where the weaponers of Qward got that **thing** they brought into the solar system. It's possible that this anti-matter Luthor escaped custody of the **Syndicate** and found his way to our Earth."

"As he's done before," Talia said darkly.

"Yes," Calculator said.

"Then," Talia continued. "Our first priority is getting Lex back—**our** Lex."

"And how do we wish to affect this?"

"The best defense is a good offense, Noah. We mount a strike force and storm the Skull Ship."

"You're joking."

"No," Talia responds. "We're going to get him back. And we're going to **kill** the impostor."


End file.
